


Dogfight

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Sole, Banter, Blow Jobs, Bratting, Canon-Typical Violence, Deacon has Issues, Deacon has a thing for prewar values, Deaon's a little shit, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Families of Choice, Female Sole is also military, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluffy, Happy Ending, I take it back, I'm making the canon my bitch, Idiots in Love, Imagine having a kink for bad jokes, It's not slight canon divergence, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, Manic Episode, Mutual Pining, Non-Bostonian SoSu, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Denial, Slight Canon Divergence, Slight Voyeurism, Slow Burn, Sole Survivor Rosie Castevet, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 103,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Deacon finds what he thinks will be the Railroads next secret weapon. Rosie finds her son missing, and a world she once knew in shambles. But if a pint-sized prewar fighter pilot and a unscrupulous spy from an underground militant organization can manage to take down the boogeyman of the Commonwealth, there might be hope for postwar Massachusetts after all.
Relationships: Deacon & Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Macready & Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 90
Kudos: 44





	1. Patience and Petulance.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first work so please be gentle with me. Please and thank you. I know we're starting off pretty slow, but if this is fic is well received I promise things will speed up!
> 
> (P.S. Constructive criticism is absolutely welcome.)

Deacon had always been a patient man.

So when he caught wind of institute activity around a previously unheard of vault just north of Concord, it didn’t bother him that after five months of dutiful scouting and observation, the most exciting thing he witnessed was a rad rabbit with only three feet.

Totally didn’t bother him at all.

After another six weeks, Deacon could only see two explanations. One- After a bout of jet-induced paranoia, Radcat had dispensed yet another dead end lead. Moderate probability, but meant he’d have to hunt down a dealer. No fun, but sloppy tourists were useless. Two- The institute was here, got what they wanted ages ago, and scurried away never to return again, meaning he’s been sitting for six months on a chair that made his ass hurt for no damn reason. Highly likely, incredibly annoying, and literally the least amount of fun possible.

Guess there was only one way to find out.

Deacon ducked out of his slap dash lean-to and made his way towards the vault platform. He took out his rifle and did a quick inspection of the structures around the platform. Nothing special. A couple skeletons, a few warped old terminals, until finally, bingo! A big red, highly conspicuous button. Time to party. Deacon pressed it and immediately heard a loud grinding sound.

The vault was wet, cold, and _hot damn_ that smell. This kind of ‘decaying matter’ aroma was usually reserved for places that hadn’t been touched in a long, long time. Disheartening, he thought, but not game over. After the sixth or seventh skeleton though, he decidedly labeled the mysterious Vault 111 as a seriously grim locale. 

And then he found them.

Rows upon rows of bodies, frozen in time. Encapsulated in big hulking pods, their faces pale and covered in frost, like something out of a sci-fi movie.e His original glimmer of hope had been quickly dashed when an inspection of the nearby terminal told him every occupant was deceased. Every single one of them. Pre-war popsicles cryogenically frozen when the bombs fell, only to die as a result of a "technical malfunction." He frowned. A mass grave. Gee, thanks a million, Vault-Tec.

What a fucking bust. What would the institute want with a bunch of dead vault-dwellers? Deacon wove through the vault with an increasing sense of unease. Maybe it was all the frozen corpses. Who could say? Poor dead bastards. Thought they were gonna wake up in some ‘rebuilt America’ or whatever other propaganda Vault-tec pushed back then. Goddamn posters were still hung up everywhere. Maybe it was better that they never saw what was waiting for them outside the vault. Doubt many of them would’ve survived it anyway.

Deacon stopped suddenly as one of the cryo pods caught his eye. While the rest of the corpses were limp in their pods, heads lolling at strange angles, the woman inside this pod was pressed against the glass, her face contorted in horror. Her hands were balled up, as if she had fought to get out, and frozen tears sparkled against her cheeks.

A gross, messy feeling bubbled up into his stomach and he coughed in frustration. He knew it was ridiculous, to be upset over a woman who died two hundred years ago, but it was hard not to be. She was young, couldn’t be older than twenty-five maybe? Pretty kid. Doll face, big doe eyes. She looked so innocent. And she died terrified. What a fucking waste.

And what was she so scared of? He followed her gaze to the pod across from her and found his answer. A man, with dark purple blood painted down his neck and chests. Deacon stood on his tiptoes and studied a small wound in the man’s temple. His breath fogged up the glass and he wiped away the condensation

_Now, who went and slugged you, big guy?_

Deacon bounced back on his heels as he thought. Life support malfunction, eh? Sure didn't look like it. He looked down at the pod number painted on the glistening concrete. C6. Hm.

He spotted a terminal connected at the end of the row and made his way towards it. He scrolled through the pod numbers until he found it, Pod C6. Mr. Nathaniel Castavet... and infant? That was interesting. There certainly wasn't a baby there now. 

Mr. Castevet’s status was listed as “unknown.” Ha. Okay, sure. Also listed was a “pod door manual override.” Hm. A rude awakening, then. 

Next on the list was pod C7. Mrs. Rosie Castevet. Ah, fuck. This place was bound and determined to give him an emotional kick to the nads. A young wife witnessed her husband’s murder, and quite possibly the kidnapping of her baby, and now the poor thing is-

_Status: Stable._

He blinked. No fucking way. Someone kills this dude, takes the baby, but leaves just one person alive in this shit-hole? If this was institute, he was way out of his depth here. 

He returned to pod C7. What do you know, his own personal sleeping beauty. He discovered her after all, he knew her story, and if this really was institute work, she must be important. A key piece. After all, somebody left her alive on purpose. Oh yeah, he was _all over_ this one. What a wonderful distraction.

Deacon tapped a finger on the glass.

“Don’t worry,” he breathed-

“I’m comin’ back for you.”


	2. Little Miss All-Goes-Well.

Rosie had always wanted a baby boy. 

Growing up with four older sisters, she had always felt a compulsive, boorish need to be different. Not just one of five. 

Her mama had loved having five little girls, she squealed at the thought of having all five daughters hold the title of Miss Texas, one right after the other, and most of all, she relished the idea of five little brides, five grooms of good name and stature, and grandchildren out the wazoo. 

Papa just wanted a boy. 

Her mama had fainted when she got her pilot’s license, papa just smiled, and as for her sisters? Shit, she had never heard that much screaming before.

Until now that is.

Until now, in the wreckage of a Concord she used to know, surrounded by men in strange cobbled together outfits, and hand made guns, who were now screaming in terror and running...away from her? When she had dropped from the roof of the museum in her filched set of power armor, these men seemed all too ready to give her a run for her money, why run now?

She got her answer when a deafening roar rumbled behind her. The ground shook beneath her feet and she almost toppled over as she whipped around. There, maybe twenty yards in front of her, crawling out of a sewer grate was a...a giant...

What the fuck was that thing?!

Rosie reacted to her first instinct and ran like hell back towards the museum. No plan and a scaly murderous beast behind her. The wasteland could officially suck a fat one.

A blinding pain struck her and she found herself flying through the air. She landed heavily on her side and felt blood pool in her mouth. This...fucking... _dinosaur_ had taken a swing at her. And quite honestly, it made her just a tad bit angry.

She clumsily got back on her feet and readied herself to follow the next thought that popped into her head: _Shoot it, dumbass._ The reptile was currently preoccupied trying to reach Garvey’s position on the balcony and Rosie hoisted her minigun just as a blood-curdling screech pierced through the air and a well placed shot from Garvey had burned across the eyes of the monster, blinding it. 

Ha! Serves the big lug right.

Rosie gritted her teeth against the miniguns substantial kickback, and maintained a focused fire on the creature’s belly- that was supposed to work on alligators, and this thing kinda seemed like a distant cousin...right?

The monster doubled over, enraged at the exploitation of it’s weak spot, and Rosie then turned her focus to the creature’s legs, hoping to at least delay it’s mad dash towards her. A sickly and strange noise cracked and the monster collapsed. Alive, but struggling. Rosie raised the minigun and cursed.

Fuck. Out of ammo.

Okay, no ammo. No ammo, no more rounds. There’s a monster and she had...shit. She had jack shit. Shit shit _shit-_

Rosie shook her head and tried to focus, She tossed her minigun and looked around at the multitude of corpses scattered on the asphalt, _definitely_ only slightly panicking, and spotted a machete on the ground. She scooped it up and burst into a dead sprint towards the struggling beast. She heard Garvey yell as she bounded on top of a car, and then leapt onto the monster’s back. She landed heavily as the beast reared up and cried out in protest, and as it raised its head, Rosie took her opportunity and plunged the machete between the monster’s eyes, pushing through until the blade completely disappeared into its skull. The beast went limp and collapsed like a ragdoll to the ground. Finished.

“HOLY SHIT!”

Rosie laughed at Garvey’s outburst as she clumsily clambered off of the monster and turned to squint up at him, “What the hell is this thing?”

“That-” said Sturges as he swung open the museum doors, “is a creation straight from the devil himself.” She switched the release on her power armor and it opened with a hiss, “That there is a deathclaw.”

“A deathclaw huh?” She saw stars as she stepped out of the power armor and pressed a hand to the back of her head. She winced as she felt warm blood soaking the ringlets at the back of her skull.

Sturges sucked in a breath as he reached out, “That looks kinda nasty.” 

Rosie flinched slightly away from his outstretched hand. “Could be worse. And you should see the other guy.”

Preston marched up and clapped a hand on Rosie’s shoulder and she winced slightly, “Now that-” he sighed, “That was a fine display.” He lifted his hat and scratched the back of his head, “I thought you were a goner there at the end though.” 

Rosie smiled, “That makes two of us.”

Sturges piped up, “I’m just glad you’re on our side.”

Mama Murphy, the old bat that gave her a _needlessly vague_ warning before she went up against the raiders, suddenly looked up from the inside of the museum with the other survivors, her beads tinkling as she set her ghostly eyes on Rosie.

“Sanctuary…” she croaked. 

Preston beamed, “Right! Sanctuary! Oh you should come! It’s this place that Mama Murphy saw,” he fidgeted excitedly, “we’re hoping to make a home out of it, and I really think-”

Mama Murphy suddenly interjected, “Oh, Preston...She made it her home long ago, dear. Besides, she’s got bigger things to worry about.” Her big milky eyes seemed to x-ray Rosie as she spoke.

“You miss your baby, don’t you dear?”

Tears burned at the back of Rosie's eyes as she looked at her, she wanted to scream, to cry, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let any sound pass, so she just nodded.

Mama Murphy reached out her hands and Rosie came towards her, stopping when the old woman grabbed her wrists.

“He’s alive.”

“What!?” Rosie's voice broke and she grabbed the old woman's shoulders, “Where? Mama Murphy please, please. I...Shit, I have to-.” She choked as tears finally overtook her, and she just couldn't seem to make words happen. She angrily wiped them away as Mama Murphy shushed her, “I don’t know where dear. It’s not like I can see your son...I can just...feel him.”

Silence stretched over the museum for what felt like ages before Sturges piped up-

“Well it don’t take the sight to tell you where you should start lookin’.” 

Rosie took a shaky breath and looked up, “And where is that?”

He, Preston and Mama Murphy spoke in unison,

“Diamond City.”


	3. Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.

The Switchboard going dark was horrible for many, many reasons.

One of which was missing his ice cube’s big debut.

After the mad scramble to regroup survivors, find a new hideout, and basically burn and bury their old information pyramid, they were still missing valuable tech, several safehouses were still unaccounted for, and his special project had emerged, and even been spotted in diamond city.

Completely unfair. He had been totally good and patient, and the minute the curtain had risen he was knee-deep in shit.

Major shit.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to catch up with ‘Rosie the vault-dweller.’ She seemed to be all Diamond City was talking about after her entire life story was broadcasted in Piper Wright’s dumb newspaper. He didn't like that. From what he gathered, her kid was almost definitely nabbed by the institute. That made her a target. A loose end. If it were him, he’d keep to the shadows as long as possible, dodge the institute's radar. Come to think of it, he did do that. But this girl might as well have painted a big red target on her back.

Although that bright blue vault suit might be doing that for her.

“So where do we go from here Nick?”

She was heading away from the abandoned west stands, down the rickety metal stairs with the synth detective and a fluffy german shepherd in tow. Deacon was perched under an awning, just far enough to be inconspicuous, but close enough to hear everything. She was still wearing that silly vault suit, but with a few minor adjustments. She had a holster buckled around her hips and donned a bomber jacket that was way too big for her. A man’s maybe? He could finally see her coloring now that she wasn't on ice. She was blonde. Curly-headed. Cute.

Valentine stared out at the city as they walked, “Unfortunately doll, I think this is the part where we wait.” Her face fell and Valentine started quickly as her bottom lip started to wobble, “Hey, don't you worry kid. A man like Kellogg isn’t gonna stay hidden for long. He’ll pop back up, and when he does, you’ll be the first to know." He held her by the shoulders, "We’re gonna get your boy back.” 

She smiled tearfully, more of a grimace, and the detective patted her shoulder, popped his collar, and walked off into the city. Then, she finally broke down.

Kellogg. Holy shit. If that magnum-toting dickhead had anything to do with her kid...she was royally fucked. That’s all there was to it. He had seen coursers less fearsome than that asshole. This girl was barely five feet tall, and he was pretty sure the gun on her hip was a 10mm. A baby pistol. Fuck.

And now she was crying. She was sitting on the ground, face hidden in her mutts fur, most definitely crying. And he never could handle tears.

It felt really shitty to just leave her like that, all sniffly and vulnerable, but he fought every mushy, manly instinct to sweep her up, knight in shining armor style, and instead swaggered off to the security office. He had some serious information to relay, and these umpire pads needed to come off, like, yesterday. 

If Kellogg was involved with her baby-napping, she was gonna need serious back up, and if she needed back up, what better group to provide it than a group of lovable misfits with a grudge against Kellogg that rivaled her own? She was obviously competent in combat. After all, she was credited in Piper’s article as the general of the Minutemen, and while they were practically infamous for bad decisions, she had to have made a pretty big impression to earn a title like that so quickly, right?

Then again, she didn’t really need skill in combat to make an impression did she?

Deacon sighed and shook his head. Nope. Couldn't have any of that...fucking...caveman stuff. This was strictly tactical decision making. She was a unique and possibly valuable ally. Worth investigating. She was _coincidentally_ also a total knockout. But, whatever! Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?

~

The next time he saw her, she was blowing through the gate in Goodneighbor, and it had fucking taken her long enough. But to be fair, she had been busy in the month since he saw her in Diamond City. Apparently, with the help of their new pint-sized general, the minutemen had successfully taken back the castle, which could totally pose a problem...unless she was a railroad asset. Boom, another line added to what was shaping up to be a very convincing speech to Dez if he did say so himself.

She had finally ditched her vault suit and had on some long, colonial-looking blue coat over a slightly raggedy patterned dress that didn't fit her. Apparently she had some affinity for ill-fitting clothing. There was a belt across her chest with a radio attached to the front, and a shiny new laser rifle slung across her back. Which was kind of an improvement. Kind of.

“Hey. Hold up there hot stuff.”

Finn, resident dickhead and con-man, had stopped her just as she entered the marketplace. She looked up, wide-eyed and startled. “Excuse me?”

“I said hold up there. This your first time in Goodneighbor is it? A pretty thing like you can’t go walkin’ around here without insurance.”

Deacon watched her cock one eyebrow and slip a hand inside her coat pocket and felt himself get a little giddy. He'd love to see Finn stabbed by a girl half his size.

“Insurance huh?”

Finn's face crept into a cringing smile. “Yeah doll, insurance. Personal Protection. You hand over everything you got in them pockets, or accidents start happening to you. Big, bloody accidents. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty little face of yours, now would you sweetheart?”

Her face turned beet red, and Deacon felt a nasty little feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whether it was the predatory, leering smile Finn was wearing, the pet names, or the fact that Deacon couldn’t for the fucking place her accent, he found himself increasingly pissed off. Huh. Must be his delicate, gentlemanly sensibilities.

Rosie laughed, “You know pal, where I’m from-” In one quick motion, she had drawn her hand from her pocket and was now wielding a small switchblade in her right hand. “That ain’t insurance. It’s robbery. Jackass.”

A whistle rang through the air, and Deacon rolled his eyes, preparing himself for the show.

“Woah! Woah there, time out.” Hancock, as lazily confident as ever, had now entered the ring, big red coat on his shoulders, and stony faced Fahrenheit looming behind him. “A pretty lady walks through the gate for the first time, and you do what Finn? Try and empty her pockets?” He shook his head, “I’m disappointed man, especially since we’ve already had a discussion about this extortion bullshit.” 

Finn laughed and spit at Hancock’s feet, "Yeah, I remember the _discussion_ Hancock."“

"Then what are we doin' here brother? Scaring off guests?"

Finn laughed and turned to the small crowd gathering to watch the showdown.

"You’re soft Hancock, you keep letting outsiders walk all over us, some day there’ll be a new mayor,” He took a step towards him, “someday soon.”

A rumble went through the crowd, and Deacon watched the ghouls face slowly creep into a dastardly smile, fearsome and foxlike.

“Hey you run all outta love for your mayor Finn? C’mere, lemme let you in on a little something-”

Hancock leaned forward conspiratorially, and Finn followed, taking the bait. Then, quick as a flash, Hancock had a knife in one hand, and a gutted crook in the other. Ah, damn. He was really hoping the ice cube would have the honor.

Hancock pouted, pulling his knife from Finn's torso and releasing his collar. Finn's body dropped to the ground like a puppet who'd had his strings cut. “Why’d you have to go and make me do that huh? Really breakin’ my poor little heart over here.” He finally turned his attention to Rosie. “Sorry about that sweet thing, won’t happen again. You doin’ alright?”

She was pressed against the city walls, staring wide-eyed at Hancock, “You- You stabbed him!”

Hancock laughed, “Well sugar, it seemed like you were gonna beat me to it.”

“Well...yes, of course, but I wasn’t planning on-” she stopped, suddenly realizing what she was about to say and straightened up, feigning composure. Still too soft for wasteland justice, then. “Well, yes. Yes I was, I suppose you’re right." She laughed nervously, "Can’t let a girl have any fun around here can you?”

“Ha! Sweetheart, If that’s what you call fun, you're in the right place,” he tipped his hat and offered his hand to shake, “Mayor Hancock, welcome to Goodneighbor.”

She started and beamed, “Oh, that's right! Sir, you’re exactly the person I came here to see!”

Hancock grinned. “Oh am I?” Blegh. Deacon could practically see him starting to drool. Rosie still hadn’t stopped shaking his hand.

“Oh yes sir! I’m General Rosie Castavet of the Commonwealth Minutemen, and I’d very much like to speak to you about adding Goodneighbor to the steadily growing list of our allied settlements!” Hancock winced and she finally let go of his hand, “Oh! Sorry. It’s just that I’m very excited about the prospect of our partnership Mister Mayor.”

Hancock licked his lips, his predatory stance flying completely over her head. “Oh sugar, You couldn't be more excited about the prospect of our partnership than I am. Call me Hancock.”

“Yes of course Mi- Uh, Hancock. Is there someplace we could discuss this? You know, trade agreements and what not?” 

Hancock grinned and threw an arm around her shoulder as he led her towards the statehouse, and Deacon felt the twitch in his eyeball come back. Geez. Keep it in your pants, Hancock.

“Why don’t you come up to my office, and we can talk for as long as you want.”

“Wonderful! Oh, this is the Old State House isn’t it? It’s good that it’s still being used for democratic purposes. Do you think-”

Her voice drifted off as Hancock led her further down the alleyway and Deacon huffed. Inexplicably pissed. Even if he had no reason to be. He knew Hancock wouldn't go for a shockingly innocent vault-dweller. Wasn't his style. Of course, he had no reason to be pissed if he _would._ He didn't care. He couldn’t tell her who to- not that they were... 

Oh for fuck's sake.

It’s just that he knew she was vulnerable. A soft vaultie. A little lost lamb in the big bad wasteland. That was all.

Which is exactly why he started tailing her full-time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name borrowed from the song of course...
> 
> "I'm wild again  
> Beguiled again  
> A simpering, whimpering child again  
> Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, am I..."
> 
> I like a little foreshadowing in my chapter titles- keeps things spicy! ;)
> 
> P.S. Chapter 4 they meet for realsies, I *promise* man, I swear!


	4. Second-Acting It.

It wasn’t hard to keep track of her, and he didn’t even always have to physically follow her. The little radio station her Minutemen had set up barely went a day without detailing their exploits, and it was honestly starting to become slightly impressive. Always news of a new allied settlement, or a cleared trade route, or General Rosie saving the day.

When the announcement aired that Goodneighbor had joined the ranks of the Minutemen, people really started talking. 

Farms had seemingly popped up out of nowhere, squads of Minutemen were seen scouting and establishing new locations, and people were talking in all of the major settlements about trekking to the castle to volunteer.

He was at his desk in HQ, beginning to lose hope that she was ever going to get to the church without a little intervention on his part, when Tom spoke up.

“Uh, hey Dez? We got a ping on the freedom trail.”

Deacon stood up so fast he smacked his head on the stone ceiling.

Desdemona looked up from her tactical map, “Do we have eyes?”

“Not yet D, but if they’re following trajectory...there!”

Deacon rushed over to the terminal, “Where is she?”

“She?”

“She, He, They, It, whatever. Just show me.”

“Well that’s the tricky part. Can barely keep my eyes on ‘em for more than ten seconds at a time.” Tom had his nose practically smushed against the screen as two streaks flew across the monitor and Tom practically screeched.“There! Did you see that! They’re almost to the hall.” Tom switched the screen to the footage of Faneuil Hall and Deacon’s stomach twisted. This was usually where things got messy.

"They're fast man. Sneaky." Laser fire erupted onto the super mutants as a small shape darted around the large brick building. The dog. Her dog! That fuzzy mutt charged headfirst into the fray, pinning down mutants as it’s master finished them off with almost constant laser fire. It was a sight to see.

“Dez! Partytime protocol! They’re past the gullet!”

“Okay people, mobilize! We’ve got company incoming! Glory! Drummer Boy! You’re on reception, come with me.” Agents around him shook to life, and Deacon felt it. Really felt it. 

_The curtain rises. Hello superstar._

Dez marched out into the tunnel as Deacon started to pace. She was here. Of her own accord. No sneaky moves on his part. Minutes passed, and then he finally heard gunfire inside the church. He heard ferals growl and hit the ground, a few screams that made his stomach drop, and then finally the low rumbling that meant she had solved their little puzzle. He entered the tunnel just as her little voice rang out.

“Uh...Hello?”

Bright light suddenly filled the atrium as the Drummer Boy switched on the breaker, and Deacon watched from the shadows as she winced and covered her eyes.

“Stop right there. You went through a lot of effort to arrange this meeting. Before we go any further, tell me: Who are you?”

She was visibly spooked, her eyes so big she practically looked like a cartoon as she stared at the two agents flanking Desdemona. She slowly raised her arms above her head, “Ma’am, I would be delighted to tell you who I am and why I’m here, but first, I’m gonna need your buddies here to lower their weapons.”

Desdemona’s face hardened and Rosie spoke quickly, “I’m not asking you to put them away, but I’ve had enough guns pointed at me today, and as you can see,” she waved her arms slightly, “I entered with my gun holstered. I mean you no harm.”

Desdemona paused.

“At ease.” Glory and Drummer Boy lowered their guns as Desdemona continued, “Now stranger, answer my question.”

She slowly lowered her hands as she spoke, “My name is Rosie Castavet. I followed the Freedom Trail looking for the Railroad. I’d like to join your cause.”

Dez scowled. “And why is that?”

She sighed. “Honestly? You’re the only ones that seem to be fighting back. You guys have balls. Everyone else is running scared,” her dog nosed at her hands as she balled them into fists, “Somebody should be taking the fight to the institute, you know? That’s all.”

Desdemona tilted her head, “Interesting.”

_Go time._

Deacon strutted lazily into the light and Desdemona glanced back at him.

“Deacon, I need intel. Who is this?”

“First of all, hello Dez, I’m doing great, thank you so much for asking, and secondly, wowza! Boss, you really don’t know who this is? She’s kind of a big deal out there.”

He was rewarded with a bright red blush. Flattered instead of annoyed. That was promising.

“Specifics Deacon?”

“Oh,” he looked down at his sneakers, “nothing too big really. She’s just _the General of the entire Commonwealth Minutemen._ Rebuilt them from the ground up actually.”

“Quite a feat."

"And then some. She's practically famous for being a bad ass Dez."

"Is this you vouching for her?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely. She’s someone we want on our side.”

Desdemona frowned thoughtfully. "Then I have one more question stranger, the only one that matters. Would you risk your life for your fellow man? Even if that man is a synth?”

Rosie didn’t even blink.

“Without hesitation.”

The corners of Dez's mouth perked up, but she stopped and sighed, “Look, I’m not saying we couldn’t use you, but we don’t have the resources to train a new agent right now. But...that is not to say we don’t have things for you to do. See Deacon for details.” She turned on her heel and retreated back into HQ, the two agents trailing behind.

He leaned against the wall as she made her way over, and as she came closer he realized this was the first time he was getting an actual look at her face.

She was pretty. There was no denying that. With her big blue doe eyes and chubby cheeks, she looked like a cherub from one of the old world paintings. She had her curls tied at the top of her head, but a few had sprung free to frame her heart-shaped face. Seeing her in person was vastly different than looking at her frozen face through three inch glass. He could probably even count the freckles across her little nose-

“I would introduce myself, but it doesn’t seem like I really need to.”

_Woah. Slow down Deacon. A lot of data at once._

“Yeah sorry about that. First impressions can be a little tough in our line of work.” Her dog nosed at his hand and he reached down to pat his head.

“Your leader was just being cautious, that’s understandable.” She paused, “Oh! She is your leader, correct?”

“You betcha, slick. She wants to make you a tourist,” He looked her up and down through his shades and chuckled, “What a waste.”

She scrunched up her nose and Deacon shoved down the squeeze he felt in his chest, “A tourist?”

“Glorified gofer. But don’t you worry pal, I’ve got a plan to get you in full-time.”

“You do?”

“I do indeed. I got a job. Too big for me. Just perfect for the two of us. You help me out, we turn a few heads, and Dez invites you to join the fold.”

Again, no hesitation. “Alright. What’s the job?”

He smiled, “Oh all in good time pal. Meet me at the old freeway outside Lexington at noon tomorrow and I’ll give you all the details. Promise. Should be no problem for someone as capable as you.”

She immediately started entering coordinates in her pip-boy, “Freeway outside of Lexington. Got it. Alright Deacon, you can count on it.” She extended her hand and he couldn’t help but smile as he shook.

“Fantastic.” he put both hands on hers and lowered his voice, “By the way, I would also consider it a close, _personal_ favor if you didn’t sell us all out to the institute, yeah?”

She stared up at him with those big blue eyes and cleared her throat, “I- Yes. Y- Yes, of course not.”

He clapped her on the shoulder, “Thanks a million.”

One last scratch behind the ears for the mutt, and he turned and walked back into HQ.

"See ya tomorrow, blondie. Don't be late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They spoke! They spoke to each other! 
> 
> I said it was a slow burn. I tried to warn y'all.


	5. Uno Ab Alto.

Rosie was never late.

Ever.

So when a tall dark stranger told her to meet him outside a highway at a specified time the following day, what did she do? Head to the nearest settlement and sleep there? No, no, no. Too easy. She camped out ten minutes away so she could be sure of a timely arrival. So there she was, camped out inside what must’ve been a gardening shed at some point, sitting on her bedroll as Dogmeat snored next to her.

Deacon. A code name obviously. A cryptonym. Kind of a silly one. Did they have a rule against names? She supposed that made sense. Except she immediately told them hers. Was that bad? Was that why their leader didn’t let her in? How was she supposed to be a synth-liberating, institute-battling secret spy if she couldn’t even keep her name to herself? Oh, god. She didn’t even know what this ‘job’ was. She felt woefully unprepared. It was also very hard to pick out clothes for completely unknown activities.

Jeans were versatile right? Durable. Flannel button up was a solid choice, as were the sneakers she had walked holes in by now, and the bomber jacket Codsworth had helped her put plated lining in... 

Rosie sighed. She just wanted to be impressive. 

She had made it to the end of those catacombs only to find guns in her face, and then this big tall man came out of the shadows like he was in a film noir and- and he was handsome. He was handsome and he held her hand. He smiled a lot. It was confusing. And the wave of guilt that hit her after she realized she had found another man handsome was awful. _Awful._

So now she was here. Anxious and nauseous and guilty and she literally just had a fucking baby six months ago so her _stupid boobs hurt_ and Nate was dead. Her husband was dead, and she couldn’t get him back.

And it invaded her mind every time she had a free moment. She was so tired of crying.

After a refreshing four hours of fitful sleep, she packed up her things and started walking. It was only ten thirty, but she figured waiting by the highway was better than waiting in that musty old shed. Unfortunately, there was already someone waiting there. A man in tattered clothes was leaned casually against a tree under the overpass, and Rosie wrapped a hand around the knife in her pocket as she approached.

“Um, excuse me sir? I’m supposed to be-”

The man whipped around and grinned, “Hiya, sweetheart! You like the disguise?”

Oh! Oh. Son of a bitch.

“Deacon!?”

“In the flesh.”

He was dressed like a typical wastelander, tattered shirt, jeans tied with a rope, patched jacket, the works. When he reached down to pet Dogmeat she noticed he even made himself purposefully dirty. She remembered approving of his cleanliness when she met him. 

“Holy hell. I was gonna tell you to get lost.”

He didn't look up as he responded. “You’re early.”

“I have a problem with tardiness.” He laughed, and she had to fight off her blush as she looked up at the overpass, “So, why the disguise?”

“It’s a necessity. Tango with the institute and you have to remain as unrecognizable as possible. You’re lucky I didn’t do a face change too.”

“A what?”

“One of my legendary face swaps. Every couple months I go under the knife. New face. Keep the institute guessing.”

Face swap? She had heard of plastic surgeons doing pretty incredible things prewar, but a whole new face? That just seemed-

“A face swap? I think you’re full of shit, mister.”

He froze, and for a second she thought she had pissed him off, but then he broke out in a barking laugh that made her want to immediately make him laugh more. “Sweetheart, this is gonna be a whole lot of fun.”

He started walking towards a fallen sixteen wheeler that was serving as an impromptu ramp up to the overpass, and she trotted to catch up, Dogmeat already at his heels.

“Right, what is going to be fun exactly? I mean what are we supposed to be doing?”

He made it onto the overpass and Dogmeat started sweeping the road, inspecting cars and wagging his tail. “Well first we have to get a little bit of information. The Railroad’s only recently been using the Old North Church. Our old HQ was underneath a Slocum’s Joe.”

“The donut shop?”

“The very same. It’s a lot cooler than it sounds, trust me.”

He suddenly held out his arm and she stumbled as she ran into it. “What?”

He shushed her, and she was going to protest, but instead stayed silent as he retrieved the rifle that he had slung across his back, slowly raised it, and whistled. Dogmeat tensed as two ferals suddenly growled to life and raised their ugly heads from behind a truck bed. Before Rosie could even grab her laser rifle, two shots rang out and the ferals had crumpled onto the asphalt.

“Anyway-”

“Motherfucker!”

“As I was saying-”

“Did you just...? That was incredible!”

“Was it?”

“You were so fast!”

He sucked in a breath, and responded in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Today, on 'top ten things you don't want to hear from a pretty girl.'”

Rosie snorted. “Right. Sorry. That was just...my stars...you got them before Dogmeat, even...”

He smirked and continued, “Anyway, we had a pretty sweet set-up until the institute decided to knock on our door. Destroyed everything. Total disaster. Disaster with a capital D. The survivors didn’t have time to grab anything, so we’re getting something important we had to leave behind.”

“Were there a lot of survivors?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh. Join the club.”

Dogmeat whined, and she felt her ears get hot as she tried desperately to change course. “So, let’s go get it. Whatever it is.”

He chuckled, “Not so fast, eager beaver. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, yet.”

“Oh. So what are we doing now?” 

“Talking to someone who does. A tourist who scouted our location for us.”

A shot rang out and Rosie yelped and dropped to the ground, only to look up and see Deacon had shot another feral before she even saw it. Even Dogmeat was looking at her like she needed to shape up. “Damn. You could warn a girl.”

He laughed and reached out a hand to help her up, “I warn you, I warn the ferals.”

“Yeah well maybe you should try that, make it a fair fight.”

“No one told you to go all mole rat on me. Guess gun training wasn't too big before the war, huh?”

“It was for some people. Military folk.”

“You weren’t military folk?”

“No I was. But I was a pilot. Too busy flying shit to get good with guns.”

A small, seemingly unconscious smile appeared and then vanished. “A pilot. That’s interesting. Hold up.” She raised her rifle, thinking this was the warning she requested, but instead found him kneeling down next to a crumbling jersey barrier studying markings left in chalk. “Lesson number one blondie, these are called railsigns.”

“The little firework with the arrow?”

“Exactamundo,” he smiled as he scratched Dogmeats ears, “Anyway, this tells us our tourist is nearby, and the arrow indicates the direction. We’re heading the right way.”

He adjusted his hat and Rosie tilted her head, “Your head is shaved.”

“Is it? Weird.”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just- I just now noticed the distinct lack of- you know...pompadour haircut.” How did she just now notice? Is postpartum mommy brain a thing? "Did you shave it?"

"Nope."

“Oh. So it's a wig?’

“Yep.”

“And do you always wear the sunglasses?”

He laughed, “You ask a lot of questions, kid.”

Rosie internally scolded herself. “I know. Sorry.”

He laughed, “Don’t apologize. Just not used to being the less nosy one. Means I’ll have to figure out some other way to annoy you.” He focused suddenly and pointed, “Railsign!!” He trotted over to a rusty bus, where another small starburst surrounded a little plus sign. Rosie scrunched her nose. 

“I’m not nosey.” 

“Of course you aren’t, where’d you get that idea?" He pointed to the railsign, "This means ally. Our tourist is nearby. X means danger, you know the arrow, a square means cache, a little baby house in the middle means safehouse, and-”

“Is that our guy?”

She pointed to a man with a leather coat and satchel across the highway, pacing nervously around a small fire pit and Deacon grinned. “Yes! The man, the myth, the legend, the man I once found waist deep in a garbage can, Ricky Dalton!” He turned to Rosie and slung an arm over her shoulder as he murmured in her ear, “You’re gonna take point on this conversation, now no matter what Ricky says, you’re gonna respond with ‘mine is in the shop.’ Yeah?”

She forcibly ignored her own small shiver. God, being with this man was confusing. She felt like she was being pulled in all sorts of different directions all at once. She swallowed and nodded her head, “I uh-”

“Atta girl.” He pushed her towards Ricky, who started when he heard her stumble.

“Oh, thank atom. Do you have a geiger counter?! Do you have a goddamn geiger counter!?”

“I- Uh...Yes- Mine is in the shop!”

She said it. She practically yelled it, but she said it.

Ricky pulled a face, “What’s with your friend? HQ said they were sending one agent. Not two. And what's with the fucking dog?”

Deacon piped up behind her, “Sorry pal, I’m new. She’s just showing me the ropes.”

Lie. That was a lie? But Deacon was supposed to know better, so she just smiled and nodded.

Ricky huffed through his mustache, “What were you HQ assholes thinkin’? The wall as my witness I thought I was dead! I signed on for light recon, but that Slocum’s of yours is crawling with goddamn chrome dome synth sons a bitches!” Ricky spit, “Even if you could take the synth’s down, they fortified the front to hell and back with mines and shit all over the damn place.”

She frowned. What a rough kind of man. She didn’t care if the world had been destroyed by nuclear fire or not, spitting was just plain rude. “So solid frontal defenses?”

“Solid? Mamacita did you hear a goddamn word I said? It’s fucking impenetrable.”

Rosie felt her shoulders droop a little. “Oh. Well thank you Ricky, I appreciate it.”

“If there’s nothing else, I’d like to get the ever-lovin’ fuck outta here.”

She glanced back at Deacon, was there anything else? But he was already moving past her further down the highway. “Uh...yes! Yes, thank you, that will be all sir, goodbye.” She dashed away and jogged up to meet Deacon, “Hey? What was all that about?”

“What’s your read on Ricky?”

“My- Uh...I think he’s kind of gruff, I mean he _spits_ which is really just—”

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

Rosie laughed, “Ha! Uh, yeah. He doesn’t strike me as the subtle, conniving type.”

“Me either.”

She studied his face, “You lied though.”

He shrugged, “That I did. Thank you for noticing.” They reached the end of the overpass, and Deacon slowly skirted down a fallen slab of concrete towards the ground, with Dogmeat closely behind. “I say we trust his intel, which means a frontal assault isn’t the way to go. So we’re taking the back entrance.”

Rosie struggled down the mountain of rubble and debris, huffing at the ease in which Deacon and Dogmeat had already reached the ground. “Okie dokie.” She landed heavily on the ground. “Lead on, Deacon.”

The back entrance was hidden in a pipe, and led to some dusty old...tunnels? Strange place for top secret headquarters, but hey, what did she know? 

Dogmeat whined as Deacon fiddled with an old terminal, and Deacon smiled, “Don’t you worry pal, just feeding this old thing some passwords to override the security protocols, and then you can tussle with all the synths you want.”

Rosie frowned. “I think it’s just making him nervous.”

Deacon chuckled. “I’ve seen that dog in action. I don’t think he’s nervous.”

“Dogmeat is a gentle soul!” She looked down at the pup's big brown eyes and smiled. What a big, fluffy baby.

He laughed, “Yeah, and I’m President Eden.” He looked over his shoulder to address the dog directly, “Not holdin’ it against you, Dogmeat. I like a bit of a violent streak.” Suddenly the terminal beeped, and the security gate swung open. “Alright pal, into the woods we go.”

The tunnels were dark, wet, and terrifying. Rosie thought gen 1 synths were scary when she shot them down at arcjet systems, but here they were somehow even worse. Maybe it was because every few minutes they passed a corpse that was obviously the result of synth handiwork. 

“Oh, man. Poor Maven.”

Oh no. She could handle this as long as she didn't know their names. The minute you gave someone a name she could imagine their whole life, everything they had before they were just bodies lying in the damp underground. She stared down at the woman dead at her feet. Older, dark hair...hollow, lifeless eyes...

“Looks like she managed to hide something before she- well you know.”

He gestured towards the little railsign drawn in chalk on some piping as Rosie tried desperately to push down her rapidly approaching tears. Fuck. _Why_ did he have to tell her her name?

Deacon inspected the hollowed out piping, “Some ammo back here if you need...any…” He drifted off as he met her eyes. Rosie angrily rubbed the tears from her face as she kneeled to close the dead agents eyes. “Uh...hey, pal. Are, uh...are you crying?”

“No.” She paused. “I- you just- you shouldn’t have told me what her name was.”

“Right. Sorry about that. Should we just...?”

“No you don’t have to- I mean you’re the one who..." She huffed, "Yeah...let’s just move on.”

Stupid. These were his friends. His people. He shouldn’t be apologizing to her. And it just got worse as they got deeper within the compound. More synths. More bodies. Most of them wearing the same khaki colored armored jacket or brown leather coats. 

Then they finally made it to the compound itself. The way Deacon explained it, there was some sort of government intelligence operation happening right underneath this donut shop before the war. Which should surprise her, it really, really should, but honestly, after the world burned in nuclear fire, nothing was shocking anymore.

Deacon turned his back against the double doors and kicked them open. “Welcome to the place that never officially existed.”

The moment they came through the doors, they were facing synths in all directions. Deacon immediately took care of the synth on the upper level, as dogmeat raced to pin down the gen 1 closest to Rosie. It took four shots until the thing finally collapsed.

“Try aiming, pal!”

She shouted angrily across the room as she rammed the butt of her rifle into a synth beeping about her stealth capabilities, “I _am_ aiming jackass!”

Truth was, she was never really a gun person. She joined the air force because she loved to fly, but she didn’t have a whole lot of ground combat experience. Nate was the combat guy. The fearless foot soldier. She was a fighter pilot. She wasn’t trained for hand to hand combat.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to beat this last synth with a lead fucking pipe though.

“Stupid- Creepy- Plastic- Motherfucker!” She shouted as she reduced the synths metal skull to scrap parts. She heard a laugh behind her and turned to face Deacon, sitting with his feet up on one of the desks, smiling at her.

“My goodness me! The mouth on you, young lady.”

“Yeah,” She tossed the pipe, “Thanks for the help.”

“Have to observe your fighting style, blondie. Good to see you make up for terrible aim with pure unadulterated passion.” 

Rosie felt a small jolt in her chest at the nickname but shook her head clear, “I just...these things...they’re creepy.”

“Yeah,” he kicked a mechanical hand, “they’re a big debate down at HQ.”

Rosie frowned, “How come?”

“Whelp, some agents think we should liberate these early model synths, too.”

She looked around at the mechanical remains scattered throughout the room. They didn’t seem very sentient to her. “They do?”

“Yeah, except gen 1’s are basically human shaped turrets, so where are we supposed to draw the line? Do we liberate protectrons? Analogue clocks? Every time it’s brought up-” he whistled, “fireworks. Come on, the prototype is further inside.”

They continued until they reached a large room with a floor to ceiling safe, and Deacon whooped.

“Here we are! Now let’s get this damn thing and get the fuck out of here.”

She looked around the room as Deacon fiddled with a terminal. There were a few scattered rifles she didn’t recognize, some chemistry equipment, and...gas masks? The railroad was made up of an odd bunch. The safe door made a loud grinding noise behind her and she turned. Deacon was standing at the terminal with his arms up as if he was conducting his own little personal victory orchestra.

“Open says me!”

Rosie looked around in awe at the room behind the giant safe door. Inside there were shelves upon shelves of tech, weapons, ammunition, a few maps dotting the walls, boxes of files and—

“Tommy Whispers. So he didn’t make it.” He sighed and seemed to speak to himself, "How did I know..."

The man lay in the middle of the concrete floor, a pool of long dried blood surrounded him. He was handsome. Young. Way too young. Rosie fought the stinging in her eyes and bit down hard on her bottom lip. She _had_ to keep it together.

“He died protecting our secrets.” Rosie was shook from her thoughts as Deacon suddenly spoke, kneeling by the agents corpse. He took a breath and stood, holding out a small pistol. "This was Tommy’s hand-cannon. I think you should have it.”

Rosie stared. “Me? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-”

He grabbed her hand and placed the pistol in it, “Tommy was...one of the best. Call this a vote of confidence.”

She stared up at him and tried to get a read on him through those dark shades of his. What was this supposed to mean? The gun was a sort of...welcome gift. "A vote of confidence," he said. Was she Tommy's replacement? It didn't seem fair to the poor kid now lying on the ground. Barely older than she was. He deserved to be remembered properly, even if he had dedicated his life to living in secret. She straightened her back and took the pistol, “Well, I have something for him too.”

Rosie opened her backpack and rifled through it. She knew she had them in here...Ah hah! Two hair scarves, a cream colored one with green scalloping, and a blue floral one. She frowned and looked up at Deacon. “Green or blue?”

Deacon just stared at her. “Huh?”

She held up the two scarves. “Green or blue? Very simple question.”

The furrow in his brows deepened. “Uh...blue?”

She replaced the green one and knelt by Tommy’s side. She very carefully folded his hands, and covered his face with the blue scarf. Close, but it was missing something to be called anything close to a memorial. Rosie rifled through her knapsack and found a pressed fern flower she forgot she had. It would have to do.

She placed the fern flower on his chest, stood, and saluted. “Thank you, Tommy. Something tells me you were a hell of a guy.” She turned to face Deacon, who was staring her down, mouth slightly agape. “What? You said he died protecting your secrets, right? Soldiers like that should be properly honored.”

Deacon shook his head and looked down at the impromptu memorial, "Yeah...yeah, you're absolutely right.”

She shrugged. “I just wish we could give them all a proper burial. This seemed like the next best thing to do for a man who died trying to protect his friends.”

He looked down, chuckling to himself. “You're something, you know that? Now grab that green box over there and let’s get you the hell out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are getting longer people, buckle up.
> 
> Also, my tumblr is velvet-verve if you want to follow me there. <3


	6. How a Pilot Gets Her Callsign.

When Rosie had put that prototype in Desdemona’s hands, her mouth fell open so wide her cigarette fell out of it. That and a little storytelling from yours truly, (there was no way in hell someone as little as Rosie could’ve possibly carried him through the entire complex on her back, but Dez seemed to eat it up anyway,) and she was in. Hallelujah. The other agents seemed to be taking his little ice cube right into the fold, too. He knew Glory was fast developing a crush and/or healthy kill count rivalry, and he personally watched as Tinker Tom grabbed her head, sniffed it, and gave her a thumbs up. You couldn’t blame them, really. She was smart, quick-witted, and a fighter. As well as grade-A adorable. With her petite little frame and that big mop of curls, it was like tugging around a child. An angry terror child maybe, but a child nonetheless. He even tried goading her with his best innuendo game, and she just stared up at him with those big blue eyes, babbling about how impressive he was with a rifle. 

Which did a lot more to him than he cared to admit, alright? It did.

It was spooky really, how quickly she went from innocent and curious to wrathful and violent. The image of her crushing a synth brain with a pipe was going to stick in his brain for a long time. Mostly because it was insanely hot, but it also proved why she was such a force to be reckoned with: Reckless determination.

Unfortunately, she was also extremely emotional. Can’t have one without the other he guessed. Honestly, his brain almost shorted out when he looked up and found her crying over a woman she hadn’t even known. And her makeshift memorial for Tommy? He hadn’t gotten so close to being choked up in front of another person like that in a long time. A really, really long time. That was dangerous. No doubt about it.

“So, agent, here secrecy keeps us alive. Code names are a part of that. So, what’s yours?”

Desdemona was standing at her tactical map, arms folded and her usual icy, authoritarian expression painted her face. Deacon could've laughed. Give it two weeks, and Dez will have all but adopted this girl. Rosie thought for a moment.

“Oh! Well my callsign in the airforce was-” She turned a deep red and glanced over at Deacon. “Uh- Blondie. That was my...that can be my codename.” 

Fucking _finally._ He’d been trying to strike a nerve all damn day. He was finally cracking that shell of obliviousness. And that tato-red blush was pretty darn cute.

Desdemona extended her hand and Rosie took it. “Welcome aboard, Blondie. It seems we're very lucky to have you.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Desdemona gave her a lopsided smile. “Your first official order is to deliver this prototype to Doctor Carrington and see if he can use another pair of hands. Dismissed.”

And with that Desdemona marched off, leaving a rather lost looking Rosie in her wake. Which meant it was his turn.

He stepped silently behind her. “So, Blondie. You’re in.”

She jumped and laughed as she turned to face him, “I sure am! Not sure if all the, uh... _embellishment_ was necessary but…”

“Oh baby,” he waggled his eyebrows, “embellishment is what I do best.”

Her cheeks flushed pink and she folded her arms, “Now you stop that.”

“Stop what, angel?”

“That! Exactly that! The pet names, and- and the eyebrows and....well you know.”

He took a step forward. They were basically toe to toe now, and their foot height difference was really working in his favor as she about broke her neck trying to look up at him.

“What, you don't like it?” He said it low, almost a rumble as she watched her go from girlish embarrassment to indignation.

“What, this little tomcat act? That fox grin may work on swooning little girls...”

Deacon laughed, “There’s always swooning where I’m involved, kitten.”

“...but if you keep it up with me, I— Well, I'm not one to be messed with, alright?” She poked him in the chest and stared at him with what he guessed was supposed to a menacing expression, but it just made him laugh. It was like watching a puppy play tug of war. “What are you laughin’ at? I've dealt with worse than you. I’ll knock you into next week! I mean it!”

He didn't mean to laugh, not really. He couldn’t help it, it was just too damn funny. He grabbed her wrists and held her in place, “Yeah, yeah, pipsqueak. I’ve seen you in action remember? I think I could take you.”

She huffed as she wrenched her hands away, but he watched the red slowly drain from her face as he perched himself up on a desk. “You better hope you never have to.”

He rolled his eyes behind his shades. “Okie dokie, killer,” He leaned against the brick wall and studied a totally not blank notebook, “I just thought we made a good team is all.”

She squirmed a little, uncomfortable with this new change of pace. “Well I...I thought we did as well.”

He turned to fully face her and gave his best boyish grin, “So let’s keep a good thing going, huh Blondie?”

“What do you mean?”

Goddamn that accent was delicious. A slow drawl that made everything she said seem so much more interesting. He was definitely gonna have to find out where she was from. “You and me. Partners. Ass-kicking duo, striking fear into the hearts of men. Whattaya say?”

Her brow furrowed, “You wanna be partners?”

“Sure do.”

“Don’t they need you here?”

He grinned, “My job is to know things. Intel. The more things I see, more places I go, the better I am at it. And you…” He took in her sweet little figure, “You are just one big, _beautiful_ distraction.”

He watched her swallow and smirked. Bingo.

“I...Well alright.” She sat down at the desk chair, “But no funny business alright?”

“I dunno doll,” he leaned forward and put his face in has hand, wearing his best puppy dog pout. “You’re just so darn cute when you’re embarrassed.” She smacked him with a notebook and he laughed. Actually laughed. That was twice today she had done that. She giggled in her seat, and Deacon made up his mind to hear that little laugh as much as possible. “Alright, alright. Let’s go see what boo-boo Carrington needs us to go kiss better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter! I know! It's a little baby bridge is all. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more ass-kicking.


	7. Flying Ace.

Rosie hadn’t gotten a restful night’s sleep since she came out of the vault, and she didn’t expect that to change deep underground, in these creepy catacombs, with the world's biggest flirt less than three feet away.

Truth be told, it wasn’t the flirting that bothered her, it was the fact that he knew he was turning her into a little pile of girl jelly and that’s exactly why he was doing it. He was trouble. A whole lot of trouble. Dangerous too, no doubt.Yet he smiled more than anyone she’d met thus far, even if most of them were fake, and the few genuine grins she got from him made her more proud of herself than she’d like to admit. When he was really smiling his face looked so soft, gentle even. It made her wish she could see his eyes. But he was always wearing those stupid glasses. He was wearing them right now! Sleeping in them! Stupid. That’s all it was. Stupid.

Rosie felt anger ball up in her tummy and punched her straw pillow. She was supposed to be sleeping, why was she thinking about that candyass anyway?

Because they were partners now. He had asked and she said yes. In fact she had nearly jumped for joy when she realized he wanted to be, despite how uneasy it made her. He just seemed to know so much more about her than she knew about him. He was this infinite bundle of white lies and one liners and half-truths, and she just couldn’t understand that. She had always been painfully, brutally honest, too honest for her own good.

He even knew her callsign somehow. Boy, the twist in her guts when he called her “Blondie” the first time with that shit-eating grin... She couldn't decide if she wanted to beat his ass or swoon.

How could someone piss you off and turn you on at the same time?

When she finally drifted off, she dreamt yet again of flying. No plane, no wings, just her, floating through the air, until she eventually fell. Fell straight through the sky till everything was dark. Dark and cold. So cold that frost was forming on her eyelashes, her skin blue, until suddenly, somewhere far off she could hear a gunshot, and a baby cry and-

“Hey, vaultsicle. Wake up.”

Rosie woke with a start, squinting through the darkness at the man staring down at her. “Well good morning to you too, jackass.”

He laughed, “Have pleasant dreams, did we sweetie?”

“Not even a little, and don’t call me sweetie.” She swatted at his knee. Was he always like this? Even first thing in the morning?

“Alright ugly. Up and at ‘em, we got a dead-drop to pick up.”

Oh, right. It wasn’t the morning. He had suggested they get a couple hours of sleep before they went on her first real mission, which for some reason had to take place in the evening. Right after she had gotten her ass chewed by Doctor Carrington for not knowing what a ‘dead-drop’ was, because _someone_ had conveniently forgotten to tell her. “Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Rosie huffed as she stood, and Deacon looked her up and down.

“You gonna wear that?”

Her heart dropped. She knew she was unprepared. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“What happens when you get shot at?”

well, _that_ sure seemed unfair coming from the guy who was now wearing just a white tee shirt and jeans. “I got shot at when we were at the switchboard.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t get you to change there, now could I?”

“My jacket has armor plating in it!”

“Does it now?” He spun her around and inspected the lining, “Oh, clever girl.”

She swallowed the butterflies that kept seeming to creep into her stomach and shook her head, “Is that all?”

“I mean, a nice blue would’ve been better with your coloring, but yeah, I think that’s all.”

She elbowed him as they made their way towards the back exit, “This flannel is fine. Green’s nice.”

“No you’re right. It is fine. Just fine.” He looked away, feigning passive-aggressiveness as he opened the door to the escape tunnel for her and she snorted.

“Well you can dress me next time, tiger. Save me the trouble.”

He laughed, and she braced herself for the next come-on, but he just put an arm around her neck and grinned. "With relish. Always wanted my very own dress up doll.”

~

Rosie had been to Bunker Hill only once before, but it looked different now, when it was nearly dusk. The brahmin had retreated into their lean-tos, and the constant mooing was absent as her and Deacon made their way to the main square. The ‘dead-drop’ had turned out to be a mailbox with a holotape in it, with the holotape containing a message from a man who needed a 'heavy’ to ‘facilitate package delivery.’

Whatever that meant.

“So, heads up, Old Man Stockton fancies himself a relic from the old world. Classic business tycoon. You’ll know him when you see him.” He chuckled to himself, “He’s gonna eat you up.”

She wrinkled her nose, “Business Tycoon?”

“Yes sirree bob. He runs almost all of the caravans that run throughout the Commonwealth. Which means almost all of the information in the Commonwealth goes through him too.”

“Powerful friend.”

“Indeed.”

She spotted an elderly man across the square in a black suit and patterned tie and smiled. A relic from the old world indeed.

“That him?”

“Sure is. You remember the countersign?”

She nodded and approached the counter, she hadn’t even opened her mouth before the old man spoke.

“Pardon me, madam, but might you have a geiger counter?”

Christ on a cracker, was she the goddamn queen? “Mine’s in the shop.”

“You? Hm. I was expecting someone a bit more...armed…”

She frowned. “I’m plenty armed, thank you.”

“Never matter. I have a package in my possession that is ready for immediate delivery.”

Oh boy. This covert language thing was really giving her the run around. She looked over at Deacon, who spoke immediately.

“We’re prepared to facilitate delivery. What’s the issue?”

“The delivery route is plagued by undesirables. Obviously maintaining proper security and preventing any unnecessary delays is crucial.”

Deacon poked at her side. Her turn. 

“Uh...Delays can cause all sorts of problems.”

Deacon gave her a small smile that made her very proud of herself and added on, “And we’re all about making good trade routes.”

Stockton continued, “My current package has been in my possession far too long. I’m supposed to deliver the package somewhere nearby, but raiders have...complicated matters. If you could…?”

She frowned. “Wipe out a few raiders? Easy as pie.” Was that really all?

Old Man Stockton chuckled, “I like you already.”

Deacon elbowed her in a way that clearly said ‘I told you so’ as Stockton continued.

“The delivery is supposed to be made at night. Once you’ve cleared out the undesirables, we’ll meet at the rendezvous point after the sun sets.”

Huh. That meant they were running out of daylight. Stockton slipped a piece of paper across the counter and winked at her. “Happy hunting.”

She put the slip of paper in her pocket as her and Deacon left the square. There had to be more to this right? Who would go through all of this trouble just to tell them to clear out a few raiders? Suddenly there was a hand in her pocket and she jumped. "Hey! Keep your hands to yourself!”

He was already reading the small piece of paper he’d fished out of her pocket. “Coordinates. Blegh, he saw you had a pip-boy on.” He handed the note over to her and she huffed as she entered the coordinates in her map.

“Could’ve just asked me for it...didn’t need to go puttin’ your hands where they don’t belong...”

“Oh relax, there isn’t much back there anyway.”

She shoved him as he laughed, “Oh, that’s not funny!”

“Sure it is. Now where are we going?”

“Some old church. And if I haven’t got much back there you shouldn’t be staring.”

“Staring? Me? Never!”

Rosie huffed. Mhm. Yeah, right.

The church was easy enough to clear out. Easy enough that the sun hadn’t set by the time they were finished. Deacon had lit a lantern on a windowsill and there they sat, against a pew, waiting for their sunset rendezvous.

He had sat down right next to her, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies touching. She thought it was another attempt to fluster her, but honestly, the physical touch was making her feel calm, grounded even. And if she could be so bold as to say she knew anything about what went on in that noggin of his, she’d say it was doing the same thing to him. There were less manufactured faces, he was less animated, and honestly he seemed more relaxed than when she had seen him actually sleeping. Then again, maybe he was just tired.

“So what are we doing now? Clearing out a few raiders can’t be all we’re doing here.”

He was playing cat’s cradle with a bit of yarn he had gotten out of her knapsack, without asking of course. “Nope. Next thing we have to do is get our ‘package’ from here to Ticonderoga.”

“Ticonderoga?”

“Nearest safehouse.”

“Ah.”

He turned his head and studied her. Or she thought he was. Those damn sunglasses were still on. “So. A pilot huh?”

“Yes sir.”

“You flew stuff.”

“I did. Planes, vertibirds-”

“You can fly a vertibird?”

“Of course I can.”

“Huh. That’s so weird. I’ve never even seen a plane fly.”

She frowned. “I know. That’s a shame. Maybe if I find one mostly intact Sturges can help me fix it up. I miss flying.”

“Were you any good?”

She smirked, “Oh baby, I wasn’t good. I was fantastic.”

He laughed, “Humble too.”

“Always." She grinned. "I was a fighter pilot in the air force. You had to be better than good to do that.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. And I was an ace, honey. I was a force to be reckoned with.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Ace?” 

He nodded.

“It means I took down more than five enemy aircraft in a dogfight.” He frowned and she continued, “That means air-to-air combat.”

His eyebrows shot up, and she suddenly realized they weren't black. What color was that? “You mean you fought other planes, _in the air?_ ”

“Well, yeah. It was tough combat, though. You had to keep up a lot of muscle in your legs and your tummy to keep up with the G’s—”

“That’s extra gravity right? I read about that. All the blood goes away from your head.”

“Yeah, so you have to flex everything so you don’t blackout.”

“That ever happen to you?”

“Didn’t I just tell you I was a professional?”

He lifted one eyebrow, “Well, did it?”

She sighed. “Yes. Quite a few times. But only early on!” He was giggling and she elbowed him, “I’d been flying since I was twelve years old, but only light aircraft. My papa’s biplanes and things like that. Even when I got my pilot's license, I never flew heavy aircraft until I went into the military.”

He nodded thoughtfully, “So you need a license? Like a car did?”

She laughed, “Yeah. I still remember the look on my mamma's face when I showed her what I did.”

A slow grin crept onto his face. “When you did what?”

"When I got my pilot's license!" She was already in a fit of giggles, suddenly remembering her mothers ridiculous expression way back when, “I walked into the kitchen and I said...I told my mama I had something to show her...’” She was laughing in earnest now, arms folded over her tummy, “She turned around in her little apron, and I- I pulled the card out of my wallet and...she...she...”

She started cackling. She just couldn’t help it. Every time she thought of her mother’s face that fateful day, or the absolute chaos when she had collapsed on the kitchen floor, she went into hysterics. Every. Damn. Time.

Deacon couldn’t believe his eyes. This girl was laying on the floor of the church, giggling like a fool, and he was laughing too. Honestly laughing. She just kept doing that to him.

“What did she say?”

She grabbed his biceps and rose to her knees in front of him, her eyes sparkling with tears and wicked mirth, “Nothing! She didn’t say anything! She just...” she snorted, “She fainted!” 

She fell forward laughing, her head on his shoulder, and then he was holding her. Sort of. His heart was thundering in his ears, even as he laughed, and he was sure she must be able to hear his heartbeat through his skin. Her frizzy curls tickled his face, and he breathed in the perfumey smell of whatever kind of soap she used. Rosie was shaking with laughter in his arms, _his arms_ , and he felt something shift inside of him at the pit of his stomach that made him want to shove her away and run as fast as he could in the other direction.

“She collapsed right there on the kitchen floor! And then all my sisters started screaming, and I just stood there, still holding up my license!” Her giggling slowly subsided as she slid out of his strange, one armed half hug and onto the floor, and he returned to his place next to her, as he tried not to notice the burning sensation where she'd touched him. “Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I just...I haven’t thought about that since...since forever really. Makes me laugh every time.” He looked down at her and she looked away, suddenly bashful. “You must think I’m bonkers.”

Nope. Way off base, there. He slung an arm around her neck, “Oh, definitely. Completely unhinged. A complete loon.” He paused. “Good thing I am too.” And then he kissed the top of her head.

He immediately felt his stomach lurch and suddenly felt nauseous. That was too much. Way too much. He technically met her _today._ He just couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing it. But if she thought he crossed a line, she certainly didn’t seem to show it. Instead, she relaxed next to him, sighing a little as she wiggled on the floor.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps from far off, and knew the fun part of the night was over. 

Or starting, of course. Because this was the mission. This was the part he was looking forward to. Definitely. 

He tapped Rosie on the shoulder. “Hey, get up kid. It’s showtime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing, Rosie grew up with four older sisters, (yes she's the baby and YES you will definitely hear more about this later,) so she grew up with a lot of physical affection. Deacon is EXTREMELY touch starved and sort of doesn't know it but also sort of does and is forcing himself to ignore it. They're both very touchy. This is sort of the beginning of that. Definitely more touchiness to come. <3


	8. Virtues Of Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! I've been traveling, so not a whole lot of time for writing, but I'm getting back on the grind! I promise!

The mission went well, all things considered. There was a fair amount of raider interference, which seemed to be no problem with three well trained agents on their side. 

Except for the fact that his newest recruit seemed to have a death wish.

She was a whole lot more reckless without the dog in tow. At the faintest whiff of danger, there she went, charging headfirst into crowds of raiders like she was three feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier. He had lost count of how many times his stomach had dropped after losing sight of her, or after she jumped from the top of a bus, or dove through a storefront window. She had left them in the dust, with High Rise sticking to H2 like glue and Deacon taking up the rear, picking off raiders who got too close to the one woman hurricane. 

This girl was gonna give him a heart attack.

“Honestly baby, don’t worry so much. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

She was now sitting on a grimy cot in one of Ticon’s multiple bunk rooms. H2 sat next to her, eyes swollen and body trembling. Deacon leaned against the doorway as the synth looked up at her and gave her a teary smile.

“I wish I could keep you.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean, sugar?”

“When they take away all my memories. I don’t want most of them, I really, really don’t. But-" He shook his head. "I wish I could keep you.”

Deacon watched her lower lip wobble and sighed. They wiped almost every single synth they rescued. She was gonna have to be tougher than this.

“That’s really sweet, honey.” She squeezed his hands. “I wish you could keep me too.”

Deacon looked away as they shared a tearful goodbye hug and tried to fight the twitch returning to his right eye. He felt oddly sick. Shit. 

“Hey tiger, trying to create a brooding cool guy image over here?”

She had made her way over to the doorway, and now she had her head tilted up at him, wearing that inquisitive kitten look that was now making him more concerned than anything.

“Trying to maintain one, sweetheart.”

Rosie heaved her knapsack over her shoulder. Her hands were grimy and stained, and there was dried blood on her boots, but she still had that same, wide-eyed, innocent look on her face. It would be funny really, the juxtaposition of it all, if he didn't know innocence like hers was usually squandered in the worst way.

He shepherded her towards the elevator as he spoke. “You can’t get that attached, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean every synth we deliver gets wiped. You can’t get so attached like that." He flicked ash off his cigarette and sighed. "Didn’t you ever have a puppy you couldn’t keep?”

“Oh Deacon, everybody knows your first is special!”

He honestly couldn’t figure out if she intended that as innuendo or not until she wiggled her eyebrows at him and he chuckled.

“Yeah, well now you’ve been deflowered, so no more waterworks.” She stuck out her bottom lip and pouted at him and he frowned. “I mean it. You little crybaby.”

She swatted at his shoulder. “Empathy and sympathy are not weaknesses."

He laughed. Yeah right.

She gestured towards his cigarette. "You got another one of those?”

“You smoke?” That didn’t seem like a thing for prim prewar young ladies to do, did it? But then maybe she wasn’t a prim prewar young lady. Maybe she wasn't prim at all. She could be a real hellion. A society girl tainted by misbehavior. A naughty little-

Bzzt. Nope. Stop.

“I do, but I haven’t smoked since before I was pregnant, so hand one over please and thank you.”

She froze with her hand out, seeming to realize her mistake. Almost everyone knew the wondrous Rosie the vault-dweller was looking for her missing baby boy by now, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about her kid thus far. He had tried to worm it out of her with a few well placed, slightly nosy questions, but no dice. He tried to quell his excitement as he fished his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and handed one to her.

“Have at it, blondie.”

She took the cigarette with caution, like she was scared to touch him, and put it between her teeth. Deacon pressed the elevator call button and heard a staticky ding.

“Thanks.” She patted down her pockets. “Ah, Shit. What does a lady have to do to get a light around here?”

He really shouldn’t have. It wasn’t smart. He kept trying to convince himself that this was just basic caveman stuff, that she was a beautiful girl, and his dick was just desperately trying to call the shots, and he was just trying to steal moments of physical contact. But she was making him stupid or something. Making him do even stupider things. 

Stupid things like cupping her jaw, tilting her head up, and lighting her cigarette with the tip of his own.

And the thing was, he knew it was a bad idea. It was too close, too intimate for such a small action. Small things mattered, you know.

But he couldn't seem to stop himself, or he just really, really didn't want to. He stared into those big blue eyes, and watched her desperately search for his own behind his glasses. And thank god for those glasses. He knew if she could see him, really see him, he’d give everything away. Like how the hand on her chin was suddenly tingling with electricity, sending lightning bolts down his spine, or how he couldn’t decide whether to stare at her eyes or the pretty pink lips wrapped around his cigarette, or how he couldn’t help but imagine those pretty pink lips around... other things. Fuck. _Fuck._

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Deacon straightened and reluctantly pulled his hand from her face. He was totally fucked. Fucked beyond measure. If he had any sense, he would walk away.

But since when had he had any sense?

~

Mission completed, synth safely delivered, and it was still only two a.m.. And after watching Rosie unsuccessfully hide multiple yawns, he suggested they make camp.

They holed up next to a small utility shack tucked under a bridge. He watched as Rosie expertly built a small fire and spread out a thin bedroll she’d retrieved from her backpack.

She looked at his relative lack of supplies.

“Don’t you have something to sleep on?”

“Psh. I’m nocturnal, babycakes.”

She frowned. “You know I can’t tell if that’s a joke.”

He grinned, and Rosie huffed as she sat heavily on her bedroll.

“It’s no fair. You know so much more about me than I know about you.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want sweetheart.”

She laid down on her back and dramatically sighed. “Yeah, but you’ll just lie.”

“Wouldn't you know it fellas, it can be taught.”

She flipped over and frowned. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I know I’m funny.”

She chewed her lip, and after a moment of thought, suddenly brightened.

“What if we made a deal?”

Mmm, no. Not likely.

“What kind of deal?”

Fuck. Come on, Deacon. 

“How about, I tell you one thing about myself, and you have to tell me one thing about yourself.”

He laughed. Seemed a little too fair for his taste. Didn’t she just say he was going to lie about everything anyway? She should know better than this.

“It can be as small as you want! You can tell me you’re not a cat person for all I care...”She pursed her lips into a mischievous smirk, and Deacon couldn’t figure out if it made him nervous or incredibly aroused. Quite possibly both. “...Or are you too chicken? Hm?? Is the big super spy man too chicken to play schoolyard games?"

She had an evil glint in her eye, and Deacon felt all the sense leave his body as she ever so slightly wiggled her hips. “Okay, half-pint. You’re on.”

It’s fine. This was fine! He’d make up some answers, make her feel like she knew him, and then maybe he could get her to spill about her kid. Easy. Toootally fine.

She squealed and raised up onto her shoulders, staring up at the sky and biting her lower lip in thought. “Hmmm. What to tell...Oh!” She put her chin in her hands and stared at him across the fire. “I have four older sisters.”

Damn. Four more copies of her? It was a wonder their house never exploded.

“That’s a lot.”

“Mhm.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Mary, Christina, Barbara, Alice, and then me!”

He felt a small jolt, and hoped upon hope she didn't catch it.

“Okay, now it’s your turn, stud. Do you have any siblings?”

He laughed. “Definitely not answering that.”

“What?! No, you have to! That’s how the game works, I told you about my siblings and now you have to tell me about yours!”

“Nope. No dice, blondie.”

She grumbled and sat up, crossing her arms. “Okay then, you pick a question.” She mumbled under her breath. “Dick.”

He chuckled and thought for a second.

“My favorite color is purple.”

She stared at him, sitting cross legged, arms folded across her chest. “Are you serious?”

He grinned. “What? It’s a pretty color!”

“That’s what you’re gonna share?”

“Yep.”

She huffed. It was adorable, her pouting like that. He wanted to pull on her pigtails and run away or something. "You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Shut up. You’re infuriating.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Her stony face cracked into a small smile.

“Yeah, come to think of it, so have I. Mostly by those four sisters I told you about." She laughed. "I guess I was always kind of the black sheep. Do you know they all still live within five miles of mama’s house? I couldn’t wait to-”

The smile was gone, and was suddenly replaced by a thousand-yard stare Deacon usually only saw on shell-shocked synths. She just sat there, still and stiff as a board.

“Blondie?”

Nothing.

“Hey-” He made his way over to her bedroll, and slightly shook her by the shoulders. “Rosie? You still in there?”

She took in a breath and stared into his glasses. Her usual impish expression was nowhere to be found. Instead she wore a blank, cold stare that looked utterly wrong on her face.

“I want to go to bed now. Goodnight, Deacon.” Even her voice had changed. It was flat, emotionless. He took his hands from her shoulders.

“Goodnight.”

He returned to his spot against the shed, and they sat in silence. This was new. Strange. She was curled up on her bedroll, facing away from him.

“I don’t have any sisters.” She mumbled. “I _had_ sisters.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. That’s what he thought. He had felt a small twinge in his heart when she spoke about her sisters in the present tense. Shit. Her husband, her baby, and her whole family were totally gone in the span of what had probably felt like a few hours to her. He wanted to say something, yell and scream about the injustice of it all, comfort her, or at least tell her he understood.

He didn’t.

He had felt like kind of a creep watching her sleep all night, but by morning, when she rose with red, swollen eyes, he was pretty sure she hadn’t slept at all.

They packed up and made their way to HQ in a slightly uncomfortable silence he wasn’t quite sure how to fix. He tried a few jokes, a few jabs to try and goad her into responding, a few atrocious puns, and still, barely more than a pity laugh.

Carrington was even less pleasant. After hearing they completed their mission he spouted some bullshit about Deacon “finally taking a break from resting on his laurels,” that made the baby mole rat he put in his desk drawer a week ago completely justified.

But Rosie was still scarily silent. No humming, no questions, no oddball remarks or worries about where all the animals went during a rad storm, nothing.

He was starting to get worried when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

“Um...I uh- I wanted to apologize for…”

“Nah, it’s alright boss-”

“Freezing up back there-”

They spoke over each other and then stopped. Deacon watched her blush deepen as he searched for something, anything to say.

“It’s just that- when everything happened- it happened really quickly.” She took a deep breath. “And sometimes I forget myself, and it all comes rushing back, and I-”

“You lost a lot of people. All at once.” Shit, he knew how she felt. He could write a book on it at this point.

She nodded. “Yeah.” She raked a trembling hand through her hair and took a shaky breath. “My sisters all had children too, and I just...I can’t even bear to think-”

He put his hands on her shoulders and bent down so they were almost eye-to-eye. “Rosie, please. Don’t. I know it sounds fucked up, but you- you really can’t think about that. You’ll never know, and-” He paused and shook away the thoughts that always seemed to worm into his head when he was at his most vulnerable. “It’ll only make it worse. I promise. Don’t do it to yourself.”

Her eyes were filled with tears and he winced. Fuck. Overstepped. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid.

“Oh god, Rosie please don’t cry- Look, I’m sorry if I-”

Suddenly his breath was knocked out of him as Rosie wrapped him in a hug that could’ve knocked the wind out of a yao gai, and he froze. He felt like his brain was short-circuiting. He was just standing there with his arms out like an idiot, with Rosie wrapped around his middle and her head against his chest. Shit, what was wrong with him? This was a good thing. Shit, this was a great thing. He felt her shake with tears against him and placed a hand in her hair as he rubbed her back. Despite his best efforts, fear prickled at the back of his mind, warning him about the dangers of getting too close, of getting too attached, but he had already made up his mind.

Come hell or high water, no harm was going to come to the girl in his arms. Not like the last time. Absolutely not. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

He shook himself out of his thoughts as Rosie peeled herself off of his chest and looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen, and she sniffed.

“Using me as a snot rag huh?”

She giggled and wiped her pink nose on her sleeve. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been worse things.”

A small beep came from her pip-boy, and Rosie jumped as she stepped out of his arms. “Oh! It’s my radio.” She fiddled with a dial and spoke into her pip-boy. “General speaking.”

A masculine voice spoke from a small speaker. “General! It’s Preston. Wanted to let you know Mac made it to the ferry this morning, with the little one in tow.”

Rosie squealed and hopped in place while Deacon tried to put the pieces together. Who made it where with what? He didn’t like feeling lost.

"That's wonderful! And everyone’s alright?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Oh my stars and garters, I’ll be there by this afternoon Preston!” She looked up at Deacon. “Is that okay?”

Honestly? He had no idea. But he was extremely curious about whatever had her so giddy.

He lit a cigarette and tried to hide his excitement. “Sure, doll.”

She grinned and spoke into her pip-boy. “We’re on our way Preston!”

“Confirmed, ma’am. Over and out.”

There was a small click and Rosie switched off her radio.

She put her hands on her hips and grinned up at him. “Well, Deacon, I’ve seen your place, would you like to see mine?”

He grinned. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”


	9. Spectacle Island.

“I really think you’re gonna love it there, Deacon.”

They were heading for a place called Spectacle Island. Her home, so she said. She had been babbling about it all the way over. Her big blue seaside house, the few cottages they had built, her plans for dirt roads and a large laboratory for someone named Curie. Apparently the whole island had been spared a good bit of the post-nuclear fallout, though not entirely.

“It’s very quiet. Peaceful. And it’s completely surrounded by water so it’s practically invulnerable! I thought you’d like that.”

He did, honestly. See everything in all directions, can never be taken by surprise.

“That’s not to say I didn’t take any security precautions! But I wanted to keep the population on the island to a minimum.” She giggled. “Most of our security detail is made up of Mr. Gutsy robots actually. It seemed practical. And the only way on or off the island is by ferry, and you can only get to the ferry through the Castle, so it’s very secure! I’m in the middle of building a landing pad for vertibirds too…” She suddenly trailed off and ran her hand through her curls. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much aren’t I?”

“Are you kidding? I’m getting more excited by the second.” He smiled at her and she seemed to relax, her wide grin returning. “Besides, I could listen to that accent all day. Where are you from anyway?”

“Oh, a land far, far away. The great state of Texas.”

"Ah hah! Texas! That's been bothering me for a while.” He smirked, "I'm gonna start calling you cowgirl."

She laughed and fell silent as she stopped in her tracks. Deacon followed her eyes to a once colorful sign mounted on a storefront.

“Oh! I completely forgot! I don’t have a present!”

Deacon frowned. “A present?”

She trotted up to the boarded up door and turned to look at him. “Well he’s only three years old Deacon, I have to show up with a present!” She ducked in through a window and beckoned him over. “Come on!”

He climbed awkwardly through the window and looked around. Ah. A toy store. Of course.

Rosie was already busy searching through the dusty, unfortunately empty looking shelves.

“Uh, Rosie? I think you’d be hard pressed to find anything in here.”

Her head popped out from a tall shelf in the back of the store. “Nuh-uh! You just have to get to the back store rooms!” She dipped back behind the shelf and called out. “Over here dummy!”

He made his way to the back of the store and followed her through a creaky doorway into a large store room. She was right. This room was filled with small figurines, wooden toys and dolls, all looking a bit faded and raggedy, but intact nonetheless. 

Rosie turned with a small red sailboat in her hands. “What do you think of this? It floats, so I figure he can play with it with his papa at the beach and-” She studied his face. “Oh, I know honey. I feel like it’s my own little secret. The stores are stripped but the store rooms are usually all but untouched!”

He tried to fix his shocked expression and laughed. “I had no idea.”

She nodded. “Sometimes they’re locked, but you can usually find the key underneath the sales counter.” She studied the small boat in her hands. “So what do you think of the boat, honey?”

He walked over and looked at the sailboat. “Three years old right?” 

She nodded. “And I thought it would be on theme, you know, with him living on the island and all.”

He smiled. “I think it’s perfect.”

She grinned and hopped in place. “Well that settles it then!” She turned and headed for the door, and Deacon couldn’t help but feel smug. He thinks it’s perfect so it settles it huh? 

_Smug asshole._

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Couldn’t a guy have his moment?

He followed her through the store until she stopped at a large hole in the wall separating the toy store from the building next door. She peered through and immediately brightened.

“Oh! It’s a dress shop! I can’t believe I missed it, the sign must be-” She suddenly turned bashful and looked back at Deacon.

He smirked. “Excited, are we?”

She fiddled with the sailboat in her hands. “I know it’s silly, and I sort of resented frilly dresses and things before- before everything but-” She huffed. “But Codsworth couldn’t salvage most of the ones I had, and now I miss having them and-” Her blush reddened as Deacon smirked. “It’s stupid isn’t it?”

“Oh, we’re going in.”

“Oh no...we- we don’t have to, it’s-”

But he was already pushing her through the hole in the wall. “No, we definitely have to.”

“Oh, really?!” She glanced at her pip-boy. “I suppose we do have time, you know I never liked shopping before the war? Now I feel like I took it for granted.” She looked around the store and frowned. “This always makes me sad. This must’ve been a real pretty little boutique. Could you hold this, sugar?” She held out the sailboat and he took it as she practically skipped towards the back of the store.

He watched her as she jiggled the knob on a wooden door behind a sales counter. “Damn. Locked.” She ducked behind the counter. “That could mean ferals too, so if I can find the keys…aha!” She emerged and held up a small keyring. “Be on the lookout when we get in there.”

He hopped over the counter and took his rifle from his back as she finally got the door open. She held up one finger and reached behind her until she found a small bell next to the cash register. She rung it twice and waited.

“Hm. Nope! Coast is clear. The bell _always_ works.” 

She hopped down a couple of stairs and made her way through the rows of shelves.

“I try to find the sealed boxes. Usually the open ones can be a little-” She fished a decrepit piece of fabric from an open cardboard box and held it up. “Worse for wear.”

Deacon was, uh...more than a little excited. He always had a thing for prewar clothes. He put his rifle and the sailboat on a table near the door and strolled through the shelves, reading the labels as he went along. _Tangerine sundress, Avocado green shirtwaist, Salmon wiggle dress…_ Hm. He guessed those names matched the faded color swatches on all the boxes, although he had no idea how “avocado” was supposed to make him think of pale green.

A small square of yellow called “canary” caught his eye, and he let curiosity overtake him as he took the box off the shelf. And it was sealed! Lucky day.

He grabbed his combat knife and carefully cut the clear tape that sealed the cardboard box shut. Inside, there was a mass of sunshine colored fabric that he slowly took from the box. He immediately grinned. He couldn’t help it. It had a full skirt made up of yellow ruffles, a wide ribbon around the waist, and teeny tiny straps. He had no idea if she would actually like it, but he definitely wanted to see her in it. Like...a lot.

He followed the sound of giddy humming and found her browsing a few rows over.

“Hey, what do we think of this?”

She turned, and he couldn’t help feeling absurdly proud of himself when she gasped.

“Oh, Deacon! I should’ve known you had taste! What with the whole greaser get up and everything…” She gently took it from him and studied the inside. “It’s even in my size. Hm...Maybe I really should let you dress me.” She held the dress against herself and spun. “What do you think? Is she a winner?”

He smiled. “No doubt, sweetheart.”

She handed the dress back to him and retrieved another box from the shelf. “Okay, now tell me what you think about this…” She flicked open her switchblade and opened the box, pulling out a dress and holding it up. “So? Can I pull off lilac?”

It was a purple tartan, and he wondered if she had thought about his favorite color when she picked it out. He made his way over and felt it in his hands. Soft. The straps tied into bows at the top, and there were buttons all down the back of it. Hot damn. Yeah, he was gonna need to see this one on her too. As soon as possible, please.

“Adorable, Blondie. Sweet as pie.”

She gasped. “Holy shit, so you guys _do_ still have pie?”

They spent another half hour there, finally leaving after she had found a garment bag, because “I’m all dirty, Deacon, and I don’t want to rub off on them,” and, “How great is nylon? Still intact after two hundred years.” So now they were back on their way, her carrying the five dresses she had made out with, (three of which he picked out, thank you very much,) and him carrying the sailboat for whoever this kid was.

“You know I’m gonna have to see you in all of those, right? Like, as soon as humanly possible.”

She laughed. “What, you want me to parade around in them for you?”

He clapped his hands together. “Ooh, fashion show! Fashion show!”

“You know they used to do that in big department stores? Ladies would parade in the front windows wearing all these pretty things.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Ladies like you?”

She snorted. “Hell no. I was no model. Those ladies were tall and graceful and beautiful. Amazons, really. I’m not exactly the type.”

He frowned. He was pretty sure she was like, everyone’s type. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent a good portion of this trip staring at her ass, and if he could get her out of that stupid jacket, he was sure there’d be a lot more to stare at.

“I feel like you’re exactly the type, Blondie.”

“I’m really not. For goodness sake, I just barely pass five feet tall!” She twirled her hair between two fingers, “Plus, they really wouldn’t know what to do with my hair.”

“I like your hair.” What the fuck was wrong with her hair? It was bright gold and springy, and he hardly ever saw people with curly hair. It was one of his favorite things about her, honestly.

“Well, thank you. My mama sure didn’t. I once ran out of the house because she brought home a chemical hair straightener.” She laughed. “I probably should have put shoes on first. She tried to chase me down the street and when I turned my head to see how close she was behind me, I flipped over a fence and busted my lip.” A smug little smirk appeared on her face and she continued. “She got so upset over the cut that she forgot all about the straightener, so I think I won that one.”

Deacon laughed. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That you weren’t a prim young lady.”

She elbowed him and turned her nose up.“I _am_ a lady, jackass. Just not a prim one. Oh look! We’re here!”

They were finally in view of the Castle. He had to admit, it was impressive. The large stone structure and radio tower very clearly stated that the Minutemen were back, and in full force.

“Ah. Minutemen central. How exciting.”

She frowned. “Now, I know you have your doubts, but behave yourself.” They started walking down the pathway to the main entrance. “I know they’ve been a bit...foolhardy in the past, but I’ve really tried to whip them into shape.” She puffed out her chest. “General Castavet takes no shit.”

He laughed. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”

When they entered through the gates, she was immediately greeted by a chorus of voices from the sizable number of people in the courtyard. 

Deacon whistled. “Alright Blondie, you got me. This is impressive.”

She grinned. “Isn’t it though? Howdy, fellas!”

There were soldiers everywhere. Some patrolling, laser weapons drawn, some in a small training yard where a woman in green fatigues was pacing with a whistle in her mouth, on the far side there was a group of men singing working songs and shoveling out muck from inside the structure, and he even saw two construction protectrons steadily working on rebuilding one of the forts crumbling walls.

She started strolling across the courtyard. “I’d love to give you a tour, but I’m really eager to get over to the island, is that okay?”

“Fine by me, doll.”

“Alrighty, come on.” She reached out a hand behind her and it took him a moment before he realized what she was doing and took it.

She tugged him by the hand across the courtyard and through a small stone arch out to a beach that had a small dock where a sizable boat was waiting. She glanced at her pip-boy. “Oh, good. We’re just in time for the next ferry.”

She pulled Deacon onto the dock and hopped on the boat, where an assaultron was at the helm.

“Hi Polly! You holdin’ up, sugar?”

“Just fine ma’am. Ready to depart?”

“Yessum. Thanks sweetie.”

Deacon felt jittery. He was going on a boat ride. Holy shit. He honestly couldn’t contain his excitement.

“I’ve never been on a boat that moved before. Like, ever.”

She tightened her grip on his hand and smiled. “You know, everybody was saying that when I set this up? I couldn’t believe it! Don’t worry though, the ride’s real smooth. Peaceful really. Polly’s a wonderful captain. I found her half dead in a junkyard. She was missing a part of her leg, and when we replaced it-” She blushed. “I- I know it’s silly, but I just thought it would be fitting to make an assaultron with a peg leg the captain of our ship.”

He laughed. “Captain Peg Leg Polly. That’s good.”

“I thought so.” She smiled. “I’m glad I found someone who appreciates that.”

And, woosh, Another swell of stupid manly pride. 

“Oh! Put your things down and come over to the side sweetie, it’s wonderful!”

The rest of the ride they sat in comfortable silence, leaning over the edge of the boat. Rosie was leaned up against him and he closed his eyes as he felt the sea spray against his face. He took a deep breath. She was right. This was nice. Peaceful. Usually peaceful things only made him more uneasy. He couldn't figure out what was so different about this.

All too soon, they had made it to the docks on the island, and Deacon couldn’t help but gasp when he finally opened his eyes.

It was beautiful. It was _green._ There was bright green grass spread over the island, with tall full trees and flowery bushes dotting the landscape. Her big blue house was the closest to the docks, with two cottages, one yellow and one green, a little farther off in the distance.

“She would’ve liked this.”

Rosie looked up at him. “Hm?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” Fuck. He wasn’t that stupid.

She squeezed his arm. “I knew you’d like it.”

They gathered their things and made there way off the docks as Rosie turned and waved to the assaultron. “Bye bye, Polly!”

A masculine voice called out from the island and Deacon turned.

“Hey! Now who could that be?”

No. Fucking. Way.

Rosie screamed. “RJ!”

Macready spread his arms. “In the flesh.”

She sprinted over to the man and dropped her things, enveloping him in a hug that sent Macready stumbling, before he picked her up and spun her around.

“Happy to see me, huh?”

He set her down and she held on to his arms. “Of course I am! Oh! Where’s Duncan? I’m so excited. We have a present for him!”

Macready frowned. “We?”

He looked up, and seemed to notice Deacon for the first time. His expression immediately soured.

“Deacon.”

He nodded. “Macready.”

Rosie ran a nervous hand through her hair. “You two, uh...You two know each other?”

Macready folded his arms. “I dunno, does anyone really _know_ you, Deacon?”

He practically spit the last word, and Deacon felt a small burst of anger as he watched Rosie grab his arm. 

“I could ask you the same question, pal. You still killing people for caps?”

“You still pretending to be anyone other than yourself?”

"Big words coming from-" 

“Hey! Knock it off!” Both men were startled by Rosie’s sudden outburst, and stared at her as she continued. “RJ, I brought Deacon. He’s my friend. If I didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t be here.”

“But-”

“And you-” She turned her angry gaze to Deacon. “I don’t know what you two have going on, and I don’t care. RJ brought his son back today all the way from the- uhm...what was it honey?”

“Capital Wasteland.” Macready muttered.

“The Capital Wasteland! It’s a happy day. Act like it.” She folded her arms. “Now shake hands.”

Macready sputtered. “Rosie, that’s-”

“Tough shit. Shake hands.” 

The two men met in the middle and after a moment of hesitation, shook.

“Alright. Thank you. RJ, sweetie, is Duncan at your house?”

RJ shook himself from his angry staring and turned his head to answer. “Uh...Yeah, he was- he was napping when we heard you were here.”

“Perfect. I’m gonna go get cleaned up and then I’ll go and see him, okay honey? Deacon, grab your stuff and come on up to the house with me.”

She grabbed her things and headed towards the house, and Deacon followed. He felt Macready’s angry gaze burning a hole in the back of his head and turned, giving in to the small pit of guilt in the bottom of his stomach. And also kinda wanting to throw the kid for a loop. 

“You got your kid back?”

Macready seemed startled by the sudden change of pace, and he looked down at his boots while he struggled to answer. “Uh- Yeah. Yeah I did.”

“And he’s healthy? You found the cure, and all that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, Mac. I’m happy for you.”

The merc snorted and Deacon continued. “Yeah I know, pal. But I am.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

Deacon nodded, feeling immensely satisfied with himself that Mac was now thoroughly confused, and opened the door into Rosie’s house.

And there she was. Standing by an armchair, arms folded, and her lips pursed in a sour expression.

He smiled. “Hiya dollface.”

She cocked one eyebrow. “Mhm.”

“Have I ever told you how cute you look when you’re mad?”

“Oh, honey.” She put her hands on her hips. “You haven’t seen me mad.”

He was a bad, bad man for thinking it, but _goddamn_ that turned him on.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I just made nice! I promise.”

She sighed. “Look I’m- I’m not upset with you or anything, it’s just... I mean, I know you didn’t...I mean- You had no way of knowing. And y’all have some weird history I guess. Just-” She looked up at him. “You’ll behave yourself, right?”

“Me? Of course. No problemo.”

She smiled. “Mhm. Of course. I don’t think you’ve ever behaved a day in your life.”

He smirked. “Have you?”

“Ha! Alright. Point Deacon.” She looked at her grimy hands and sighed. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He watched her make her way up the stairs as she spoke. “I promise I won’t use all the hot water!”

“Alright, Blondie.”

She smiled and disappeared up the stairs.

He took the opportunity to take a proper look around her house. He noticed her open windows had actual glass in them. Her curtains were a translucent white fabric that flowed into pretty shapes with the sea breeze. He was standing in the small living area, complete with a three-cushioned, brightly patterned couch, and two mismatched arm chairs, all sitting on a sunshine colored rug, and turned towards a little tv set. Behind him was a book shelf, filled to the brim with different volumes that he itched to read all at once, and the very top shelf was filled with holotapes. He walked over to her desk, and glanced at the various notes and drawings next to her terminal. There was a ball of yarn and two knitting needles embedded in a half finished project that made him grin. She knits. Cute. 

The kitchen was impressive. Fully stocked. Her refrigerator was actually cold and the stove worked. Everything in the kitchen seemed to be painstakingly polished and scrubbed clean. It was nice, even her little table and chair set seemed to be scrubbed and neat, with place mats and a small pot of fern flowers sat on top. The whole house smelled clean. Flowery. Like her.

“Deacon!” 

He was shaken from his thoughts as she shouted from upstairs.

“Can you bring the dresses upstairs honey? I left them on the armchair.”

“No problem.” He hollered back. He grabbed the garment bag on the armchair and made his way upstairs. When he made it to the landing he felt a small twinge in his heart. There was a small crib pushed into a corner, with boxes of toys and books scattered about. A half finished nursery. He crossed the landing and opened the door to what must be her bedroom.

He walked in and smiled. Everything in the room reminded him of her. There was a large bed with a patterned quilt and several pillows piled on top of it. She had two bedside tables with mismatched lamps and a few small knickknacks on them. 

He heard her humming over the running shower in the bathroom and he frowned. She really was too trusting. She barely knew him and was completely comfortable showering in the next room. Maybe she thought since she had fallen asleep in front of him he was harmless? Whatever, didn't matter. She needed to be more careful.

She had a laundry machine and an ironing board by the bathroom, with a laundry basket filled with lacy things he forced himself to look away from, and another totally full bookcase opposite her bed that made him ridiculously excited. Where the fuck did she get all of them, and could he come next time?

He put her dresses on the bed and turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks when he heard her little voice singing through the bathroom door.

_“I found a dream,  
Lay in your arms the whole night through.  
I'm yours,  
No matter what others may say or do.”_

__

__

_“Light at heart and fancy free,  
That's the way to start.  
There will be nothing to lose,  
Till you lose your heart!”_

He leaned against the door frame, smiling like an idiot. Her breath had a soft, breathy quality when she sang that made him immediately want to hear more the minute she stopped, but he left when he heard the water turn off and closed the door behind him. He really didn’t need Rosie, pink and wet from the shower, as another mental image he was going to have to be forced to deal with. Shit.

He had barely made it to the bottom of the stairs though when he heard her call him again.

“Deacon!”

“Yeah, Blondie?”

“Which one do you want to see first?”

Shit. Was this actually happening? Aw, man. Decisions, decisions.

He thought for a second. “The yellow one, with all the ruffles. I wanna see that one first.”

He heard her laugh from her bedroom and shook his head. Awfully giddy over playing dress up for a girl who constantly tried to put on a real tomboy act. Not that she did it very well of course. The way she grimaced when Ricky had spit on the ground gave her away pretty fast.

He sat down on her couch when he heard footsteps from upstairs.

“Are you ready?”

He chuckled. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

She bounded down the stairs, and landed at the end of the couch. She smiled and spun. 

“What do we think?”

She looked adorable. Her hair was wet from her shower, but was still clumped in ringlets. The dress was perfect. Sunshine yellow and poofy. She had left the ribbon in the back untied.

He grinned. “Cute as a button.”

“You think so?” She laughed and fluffed the skirt. “Okay! Next one!”

She retreated up the stairs. Funny. Thirty minutes ago she made two grown men shake hands with nothing but an angry stare. Now she was giggling like a school girl.

She tried on three more before gasping and babbling about how rude she was delaying his shower and blah blah blah, as if he’d rather be showering than watching her walk around in that dark blue wiggle dress. Hot damn. He was right about her figure. She was littler than he thought she was, and the shape of her tiny waist against those hips of hers had him dry in the mouth. Nonetheless, she had ushered him into the bathroom, told him to throw his clothes in the laundry and dashed out. 

The bathroom was just like the rest of the house, scrubbed clean and flower scented. He looked in the mirror and was surprised at how dirty he actually was. He tossed off his jacket and his wig and peeled off his t-shirt and jeans. When he shimmied out of his boxers, he realized there wasn’t a laundry basket to be found. 

He cracked open the bathroom door and looked around. The dresses were tossed on the bed, including the pink sundress she was just in, so she must have changed and left. He tossed everything but his jacket and the wig into the empty basket just outside the bathroom door and ducked back inside. 

After turning on the shower, he finally took off his sunglasses and set them on the sink. Deacon stepped into the shower and groaned as the hot water drained some of the tension in his shoulders. This was always what happened. He let everything build and build until he didn’t even realize how bad he was getting. No wonder that twitch kept coming back. Shit. 

She had a whole bunch of soap because of course she did, so picked out a bar that smelled nice and finally scrubbed himself all the way clean. He tried to massage some of the knots out of his muscles and wondered if he had really been running himself ragged these past few months or if he was just getting old. Probably fucking both. 

He let his mind wander slightly under the warm water. He felt strangely guilty. This girl had only known him a few days and here he was, in her paradise of a home, because she trusted him. She had said so. And it all but gutted him to know that. She brought toys home for little kids, gave names to robots, built armies from nothing, and she trusted him. He was going to have to fix that. He had promised himself he was going to protect her, train her up, and this whole ‘trusting strange men when I’m fully naked in the next room’ thing was first on the list to fix.

The water was starting to get a bit cooler so he turned it off and stepped out. He grabbed a towel off a hook and dried off, once again relishing in the cleanliness of everything. It was a damn shame people didn’t care so much about being clean anymore. 

He put on his sunglasses before passing by the mirror, just as a usual precaution, and stepped out of the bathroom, to be greeted by a Mr. Handy drying his boxers.

“Oh, hello! You must be Mister Deacon. I’ve washed and dried all of your dirties sir, just as mum instructed, and we’ll be having dinner in about an hour as soon as mum gets back from Mister Macready’s household. Oh! I almost forgot, your shoes, sir, are just by the door, as I’m still not entirely sure exactly how to polish sneakers.” The robot chuckled. “I still shudder at the sight of mum’s dirty tennis shoes. I also took the liberty of leaving you a pair of socks as well. Good evening sir.”

Deacon was still standing stock still with a towel on as the robot hovered out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Holy shit. He didn’t think he could’ve gotten a word in even if his brain hadn’t short circuited at the sight of a robot holding his boxers. Hm. Must be her robot then. The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, and all that.

He got himself dressed and trotted down the stairs. The robot was dawdling in the kitchen, and he ducked out the front door before he was trapped in another conversation about...dish washing or something. He took a breath and looked around. There was a porch swing squeaking slightly to his left, and he suddenly noticed the small tabby cat sleeping in it. He heard voices far off and decided to look around the island.

It was picturesque, really. Like something out of a story. There were radstags dozing under trees, and brahmin lumbering around the island, both apparently unafraid of people. He passed by clotheslines, where tiny clothes that could only be Rosie’s were lazily swaying in the breeze. Then, almost on cue, he heard her laugh and turned to see her sitting on a swing attached to a tree branch near a small beach behind the house. Macready was sitting in the sand, next to a chubby, sandy-haired little boy, playing with the red sailboat they had found. Duncan then. Hm. 

Rosie suddenly noticed his presence and jogged over, smiling.

“Hey, creeper. What are you doing all the way over here?”

Her hair was dry now, and she pad pinned the front back on the top of her head, leaving a mane of blonde curls that looked like a halo. She was wearing the purple tartan dress. His mouth was suddenly dry and he felt panicked, twitchy.

“You look beautiful.” Fuck. Seriously? Come on, Deacon. Shape up.

She turned a deep red and looked down at her sneakers. “I- Uh…”

“Didn’t mean to shout it at you or anything but...wow. I didn’t anticipate it would look _this_ good on you Blondie, I mean...Shit.”

“Thank you, Deacon.” She laughed. “I told you I knew you had taste.”

He grinned. “Maybe I made the wrong career choice huh?”

“Yeah, who needs to be a secret agent-”

“-When I could’ve been dressing up pretty women all this time.”

She giggled and folded her arms. “Oh stop it, you sly dog.” She grabbed his hand and lead him over to the beach. “Come on and talk to the boys.”

He stopped. “Rosie I- I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She kept tugging. “Good thing I didn’t ask what you thought then, isn’t it?”

She marched over to the beach and Macready watched as they made their way over. Suddenly she stopped. “Okay. Wait right here.” She trotted over to Macready and said something he couldn’t hear. Mac looked over at Deacon, squinted, and sighed as he responded.

Rosie shot up from the sand and shouted.

“Wonderful!”

She dashed over to where Deacon had been embarrassingly waiting and pulled him to the beach. “Okay, boys. Make nice!” She dropped him off in front of Macready and they shared an awkward moment of silence until Rosie returned with Duncan on her hip.

“Okay Duncan, this is Deacon! He’s a friend of your papa’s!” She turned to Macready. “Oh! Is that what he calls you?”

Macready laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes.”

She smiled and looked at the little boy in her arms. “Do you wanna say hi?”

Duncan looked up at Deacon. “Hi.”

He smiled. “Hey, pal.”

He hid his face against Rosie’s shoulder and she chuckled.

“He’s shy. Not a big talker or anything.” Macready said as he took him from Rosie’s arms. 

Deacon grinned, his heart suddenly feeling too big for his chest. “He’s a man of few words. I can get behind that.” And he was adorable, with his chubby cheeks and baby fat. The resemblance to Mac was strong, sure, but damn did this kid look like Lucy.

“Yeah. Doesn’t really take after his old man I guess.”

Deacon looked at Macready’s young face and almost laughed. ‘Old man.’ Yeah right.

Rosie tutted. “Oh, sure he does! Handsome face just like his papa.”

A bell rang in the distance and Rosie squealed. “Oh! That’ll be Codsworth. Thank goodness, I’m starved.”

Macready grabbed the sailboat out of the sand. “Yeah, we’re gonna head back to the house. Say bye, Duncan!”

Duncan clutched at Mac’s shirt collar, and just barely whispered a small goodbye.

Mac chuckled. “We’re gonna have to work on that, squirt.”

“Bye, RJ!” Rosie grinned and waved to Mac as he strolled over to his green cottage, and the she turned to Deacon.

“Alright darlin’, let’s go. Codsworth made dumplings!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapter... i just love Rosie's spectacle island!


	10. Angels and Cherubs.

The thing was, Nate was not the emotional type.

He was always level-headed. Unshakeable. Calm and sensible. It’s what made him a good soldier. Even when she had gone into labor, Nate, cool as a cucumber, had just picked up her overnight bag, told her to breathe, and ushered her to the car. He never panicked, hardly ever cried, and Rosie had only ever seen him angry twice. 

She had always thought that was a good thing. His stony exterior let her constant emotion and energy and anxiety just bounce right off. He was a pillar of strength, a sentinel keeping watch over her volatile nature.

It had irritated her at times, of course. She had sometimes wished that when men approached her in bars, somehow completely ignoring the large, intimidating man next to her and flirting anyway, that he would let his manly instincts take over and get angry, or possessive even. But he never did, never liked displays of jealousy. So he would just laugh, and Rosie would cling to his arm and clue in bar flies that she was not available, thank you very much. 

She would even try to purposefully rattle him. Risky, chauvinistic moves and colorful actions at airshows, wearing short shorts at barbecues, unnecessarily bratty behavior, all intended to provoke some sort of emotional reaction. Almost like a little game she played with herself. But she never managed to hit a nerve. He just didn’t have it in him. He was always calm. Secure. Completely self-confident.

Deacon was not like that. At all.

Oh sure, he played at confidence. He swaggered through every place he went like he owned it, but it was manufactured. Calculated. She watched him put on a show for every person he came across, always showing them just enough to create the right image. No more, no less.

He was a dirty rotten liar, that was for sure. Sometimes he didn’t even try to hide it, just made up fantastical stories with a childish grin and a silver tongue. It should make her mad, but he always let a genuine smile slip when she laughed at one of his stories, and it didn’t take long for her to see he was trying to be entertaining. 

Of course, that had to come from a place of insecurity didn’t it? He thought he had to be somebody else to be interesting, or something like that. He still wouldn’t share any details about his life, and his “dodging the institute” excuse was weak at best. He couldn’t help letting things slip though. She noticed it immediately. He saw beauty in small things, got all excited over a boat ride, for shit’s sake, even now he was sitting on the couch, enraptured by _“Peter Pan”_ playing on her TV set.

She liked him. That was that. He had had plenty of opportunities thus far to hurt her, or toss her to the wolves or whatever. He had stood watch over her while he thought she was sleeping, kept trying to give her combat tips, and over all kept trying to keep her safe. Train her up. Whether that was because he thought she would be a good agent or he actually cared about her she didn’t know, but those things weren’t mutually exclusive, right? She had seen his whole body change when he had to walk through the mass grave of his fallen comrades, and knew that he obviously felt responsible for these people. They were family. And she bashfully admitted to herself that she wanted to be a part of it.

All of this would be great, except she found him incredibly attractive.

She kept trying to push it out, tried to tell herself it was just a girlish crush spawned by loneliness, but it just kept nagging at the back of her brain. She thought she might faint when he had just outright called her beautiful.

Every little pet name, or teasing flirt, or small touch made her hair stand on end, and then she immediately felt ashamed of herself for being attracted to another man. How awful could she be? She had only been out of the vault five months, and here she was fawning over a tall dark stranger. They hadn’t even found Kellogg yet. She was awful. Stupid and awful and despicable and terrible and-

“It’s you!”

She jumped as Deacon’s sudden outburst shook her from her thoughts. He was pointing at the screen of the tv set, where tinker bell was slowly spinning on top of a hand glass, admiring herself.

“Who? Tinker bell??”

He laughed and sat back on the couch. “Holy shit. That literally looks just like you.” He looked her up and down. “They draw her from your image or something?”

She felt her face get hot as she sputtered. “Oh- Deacon that’s…that’s just silly-”

“It’s uncanny!” He let out that barking laugh that she knew was actually genuine and she pursed her lips.

“Well you remind me of Peter Pan, you know.”

He nodded solemnly. “The titular role. Seems fitting.”

“Ha! Try a mischievous little boy who never grows up. Fitting might not be strong enough a word.”

He put a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

She worried the hem of her dress, trying to picture his childhood. “You know, I can’t even imagine you as a little boy. I suppose it’s hard when I know absolutely nothing about you.”

“You know plenty.”

“I sure don’t.”

“Well if it helps, you know almost as much as me.”

She scoffed. “Sure.”

“No, really. They didn’t go through the trouble of implanting any memories like that.”

She frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, did I not mention? I’m a synth.”

She froze. Uh, pardon? “You are? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged. “Had to figure out if I could trust you or not. You never know when the institute is watching.” He sighed. “Besides, it’s not my favorite thing to talk about. My cranium reboot was a bit of a botch job, so I didn’t get any of the fun, happy memories you’d probably wanna hear about.”

She frowned. Holy shit. He didn’t share anything because he had nothing to share. That must be horrible. He fished in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small slip of folded paper. “So, I figured if we’re gonna be partners, you should have this.” He held it out between two fingers. “It’s my recall code. You ever need to know something about the institute, read it to me.”

She went to unfold the small note and he spoke quickly. “But don’t ever use it if you don’t have to. I don’t know how much of ol’ Deacon will even be left so…”

She turned the note over in her hands. This was an act of trust, right? Honestly, it was a pretty big thing to share, and now she had a code in her hands that could basically reset his brain...

Which seemed like a pretty big step for someone who wore sunglasses even when he slept...and wouldn’t even tell her if he had any siblings...and kept his literal first name a secret…

She sucked her teeth. “Oh, you motherfucker.”

He reached for the note in her hand as he babbled, but she had already dashed to the other side of the house. “Look maybe I shouldn’t- Let’s just- Rosie!”

He had tried to grab her but she was on top of the kitchen counter, rapidly unfolding the slip of paper as Deacon desperately tried to grab it from her hands.

_You can’t trust everyone._

Deacon gave up and leaned back on the refrigerator, panting. “Rosie, just- Let me explain…”

She stared, open mouthed at the note in her hands, before bursting out into laughter.

“Oh my goodness...are you kidding?! How dumb do you think I am?” She put her hands on her hips and put on a goofy voice, mocking him. “Hi, I’m Deacon! I’m a synth! The institute gave me a weird brain!” She doubled over, cackling. “I hate to break it to you, but it was your mama who gave you the weird brain, you dumb ass.” She sighed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “So, was this supposed to be the lesson? _You can’t trust everyone?_ ”

He folded his arms and pouted in mock childish frustration. “Well it _was,_ but I don’t think I wanna tell you anymore.”

“Oh whatever, you big baby.” She sat down on the kitchen counter. “Spill.”

There was a small moment of silence as he studied her face. Finally he sighed and spoke.

“You’re too trusting, Rosie. You want to see the best in people, and that’s great. Good for you and all, but-” He huffed. She watched that same muscle in his face twitch and wondered what caused it. “The world is different now. People are cruel, and if you end up trusting the wrong person-” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his stubble. “You’re soft. And soft things like you...They don’t stay that way for long, you know?” 

She watched him swallow and frowned. He really thought that. He really thought she was soft. But something about the way he said it made her think that this wasn't just about her.

She sighed, “Now, was that so hard? Didn’t need some stupid note and a silly story.”

She folded up the note and slipped it in her dress pocket.

“Oh- Rosie you don’t have to keep that, it’s-”

She hopped off the counter and held up a hand. “Nope. I’m keeping it. It’s a good thing to remember, even if you went about it totally ass backwards.”

She marched over to the couch and flopped down. “Are you coming? The flying song’s about to start!”

~

Deacon was sitting stock still, afraid to move, while Rosie dozed on his shoulder. The movie had ended several minutes ago, and the stand by screen filled the room with a ghostly glow. He would’ve shoved her off to bed by now, but she looked so peaceful, quietly snoring against him.

She had really thrown him for a loop. He expected her to read that note and hate him, to rant and rave and turn bright red like the little fairy in the movie. Instead, she just laughed at him. Just like that. Laughed and called him a dumbass until he told her the truth. It made part of him angry and sulky, and part of him feel like a pining teenager.

There was scratching at the front door accompanied by a small whine, and Rosie stirred next to him.

“Oh, that’ll be Dogmeat, could you let him in Deacon?”

She shifted off of his shoulder and he gingerly stood up and crossed to the door. The moment he turned the knob, a big fluffy mass bolted past him and leapt onto the couch, covering Rosie in slobbery dog kisses.

She squealed in delight as Dogmeat wagged his tail. “Did you miss me boy? Huh? All lonely without your mama?”

Deacon chuckled, and Dogmeat, now noticing his presence, bounded over the back of the couch and planted himself in front of him, demanding affection.

Deacon smiled and knelt down. “Hey! Lookin’ good stud.” Dogmeat barked in response, and his whole buddy wiggled with happiness. He gave Deacon one more lick to the face and bounded up the stairs.

Rosie chuckled. “I guess he’s trying to tell us it’s time for bed.” She started up the stairs and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”

Uh...was he? He cleared his throat. “Uh- Yeah. Yeah, I’m right behind you.”

He followed her to the bedroom, where she slid a small box from underneath the bed and pulled out a knit blanket.

“So, you can sleep up here or down on the couch, up to you.” She held out the blanket as she yawned. “Although, be warned, Dogmeat’s a cuddler.”

The dog raised his head at the mention of his name, and then groaned as he settled in to sleep at the foot of the bed.

“I’ll take the couch, doll. Not sure I’m ready to take our relationship to the next level, Dogmeat, no offense.”

The dog let out a sigh and he chuckled.

Rosie was slightly swaying on her feet, and he ruffled her hair as she looked up at him with glazed over eyes. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She smiled softly and nodded, but grabbed his hand as he turned to leave.

“Deacon?”

“Yeah, Blondie?”

She wouldn't quite meet his eyes. “I know I said it was your choice and all...but-” She shifted her feet. “Would you- Uhm...Would you mind sleeping up here?”

He raised an eyebrow and she continued. “It’s just- I keep having these...night terrors? I guess?” She wrung her hands. “And I would just feel better if there was someone here to- to make sure I don’t do anything. You know?”

His mouth went dry as he looked at her. He wanted to give in to his panic, to dash out and run like mad in the other direction, but she just looked so helpless standing there. Staring at him with those big blue eyes, needing someone to watch over her. To protect her. He felt every stupid caveman instinct take over his brain.

How could he say no to that face?

“Sure. No problem, kid.”

She smiled. “Wonderful! You can take the right side sweetie, and you can sleep on top of the covers if it makes you more comfortable.”

She ambled over to a small pile of fabric on her ironing board, and then retreated into the bathroom. Deacon sat on “his side” of the bed and ran a hand through Dogmeat’s fur. 

This was fine. He was fine.

She emerged from the bathroom in a t-shirt and a pair of teeny tiny shorts that about made his eyes pop out of his head. Her legs were muscular, with thick thighs that made him wonder exactly how the soft flesh would feel in his hands. 

Holy fuck. This was gonna be a long night.

She turned off the table lamp, and then they were in darkness. He felt her slide under the covers next to him and she sighed. He slowly laid back himself into his usual position. On his back, arms folded. He heard her laugh.

“You sleep like that?”

“You can see me?”

“Well, yeah. Not all of us wear sunglasses to bed, silly.”

Fair. He wanted to see her right now. Snuggled under her quilt, bathed in moonlight, her hair splayed out on the pillow, beautiful and defenseless…

On second thought, he was very glad he couldn’t see her right now.

“Deacon?” It was barely audible, just above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Who is she?”

He frowned. “Who is who, Rosie?”

“When we got to the island, you said...you said ‘She would’ve liked this.’”

His whole body tensed. No, no, no. Not that. Anything but that.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Oh. I just thought-”

“Please.”

A pause.

"Okay."

He felt a large fluffy mass move next to him and smiled.

"Rosie?"

"Hm?"

"You're cuddling that dog, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tinker Bell to his Peter Pan. That's all I'm gonna say.


	11. Alpha Mike Foxtrot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence. Some detailed gore. You've been warned.
> 
> Also, it's a longer chapter. Buckle up buckaroos!

Deacon had a very spotty night’s sleep. He was painfully aware of the beautiful girl next to him, and he took his duty of watching over her to heart. She had a few episodes throughout the night, small upsets in her sleep, but nothing more than that. He was sympathetic, was all. He had enough night terrors after...everything. Mostly blood and violence, dull pains and foggy vision. He would wake up with his ears ringing, and her face swimming in the air in front of him.

Barbara. Sweet, innocent Barbara. He winced at the thought of her. She had deserved so much more. Certainly more than him at least. He felt sick. He kept trying to push everything to the back of his mind, and he felt guilt creep up in his throat. He let her die, and then he tried to forget her. Continued to try and forget her. He didn't deserve that. Not one bit. He deserved to be haunted by her memory every second of every day. He deserved to have the memory of those big dark eyes staring at nothing, empty and lifeless, and know that it was all his fault. All his fucking fault. 

Rosie whimpered next to him and he roughly wiped the tears from his face. Shit. When did those get there?

They were similar. Her and Barbara. And that might be the reason Barbara seemed to be creeping into his mind more and more often lately. She definitely reminded him of her. Kind, wide-eyed and innocent. But Barbara had never been so temperamental. No, not his little Birdie. She was the daughter of two brainiacs. She was cerebral and logical. Rosie may be just as whip smart, but she was infinitely more emotional. He still remembered mornings long ago, when his birdie would float through the house, rattling off small factoids and five dollar words, and he had drunk it up. She would get him books that she knew he would love for his birthday. Ask riddles to distract him when he got riled up. Shit, he would never understand what she saw in him.

They would probably get along, actually. Barbara’s demure nature against Rosie’s fiery intensity. Maybe this was her, sending a message from beyond, throwing him a life line, like she always did. Maybe this was his penance. He had failed Barbara, but a second lost lamb had crossed his path. He couldn’t go back, could never fix all the mistakes he made, or all the many ways he had failed, but he could make damn sure it never happened again. Not on his watch. 

Another small noise escaped Rosie and he turned to see her brow furrowed, and a small frown tugging at the corners of her lips. She was mumbling, tucked tightly into the fetal position, her arms wrapped around nothing now that Dogmeat had retreated downstairs, and Deacon found himself frowning as well. Whatever she was dreaming about, it couldn’t be good.

He reached over to brush the hair out of her face, only to find the ringlets stuck to her forehead with sweat. She was shivering. Oh no.

Deacon wasn’t sure what to do. He had never been on the other end of this. Did he wake her? Let it run its course? Her body convulsed and he decided whatever was happening in her head, he didn’t want her stuck there a second longer.

“Rosie? Hey-” He gently shook her, to no avail. “Rosie, baby come on. It’s not real. Rosie-”

She suddenly shot upright, his hands still around her shoulders, and her face contorted with fear. Deacon shook his head until the image of long raven hair and brown eyes faded away.

“Hey!” He pushed the blonde curls out of her face. “Relax. It’s just me.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, and she fell forward onto his chest, sobbing and clutching on to his shoulders. Deacon felt his heart break a little as he rubbed her back. What kind of nightmare was she having? He thought back to the vault, and that man’s frozen, bloody corpse and shuddered. No fucking wonder.

They sat in silence, save the odd sniffle that interrupted her silent tears, as he tried to find something, shit,  _ anything _ to say.

But she spoke first.

“I’m sorry.” She choked. “I’m so sorry.”

He wasn’t sure if she was actually talking to him or not. Regardless, he responded. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for, Blondie.”

~

Deacon woke up angry.

He knew it was stupid, but shit, seeing her so pitiful and teary-eyed and  _ scared _ made him want to kill and eat whatever had made her feel that way. Guess that’s just who he was now. Some testosterone filled goon who was ready to go to war over a girl he met a few days ago. Fuck.

A small beep escaped her pip boy on the nightstand, and she stirred next to him. She had basically cried herself to sleep last night, and her face was still slightly red and puffy.

She grumbled as she sat up and reached for her pip boy.

“Shit.” She yawned and switched on the radio dial. “General speaking.”

“Good morning, general. It’s Preston.”

Deacon watched her sour expression and chuckled. He was right. Definitely not a morning person. 

“Yes, Preston? What do you need?”

“Just calling to let you know Valentine arrived this morning. Said he needed to speak to you. Should be on the ferry as we speak.”

Suddenly, she was awake. 

“Oh! Fantastic, thank you Preston!”

“No problem, general. Over and out.”

She huffed as she switched off the radio dial. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just call me Rosie.” She turned to Deacon. “You and Nick don’t have some weird history do you?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Not like that. He’s a uh- mutual friend. I guess you could say.”

She nodded and tapped her forehead with one finger. “Ah. I get it. Well, good then. I was starting to think you weren’t gonna like any of my friends.”

She started towards her dresser, scrunching her nose up at the various garments in drawers. Deacon frowned. 

“Friends like Mac?”

She nodded. “Friends like Mac.”

“What’s the story there, anyway?”

She pulled out a pair of blue jeans and studied them. “With me and RJ?”

He rolled his eyes.  _ RJ.  _ “Yeah.”

“None of your business.” She looked over her shoulder, the same impish smirk on her face that somehow made him both infuriated and turned on. 

“You’re a cruel mistress.”

She laughed. “You know how the game works! You wanna know something, you have to tell me something.”

He groaned and she rolled her eyes. “You’re such a baby...Which one?” She held up two blouses, another flannel looking short sleeve in her left hand, and a pink sleeveless number with a round-ish collar in her right.

“The one on the right.” She frowned. “Your right.”

She tossed the flannel shirt and retreated into the bathroom.

“I don’t like this game!” He hollered and heard her laugh through the bathroom door.

“Too bad, so sad, buckaroo. I’m not telling you jack shit.”

He sighed. What was something easy? Didn’t reveal too much…

“I’m a natural redhead!”

She laughed again through the door. “I already knew that, try again.”

“What?! I never told you that!”

She emerged from the bathroom, cute as a button, with a red ribbon tying her hair back. “You didn’t have to, dumb ass. Did you think I wouldn’t notice your eyebrows were ginger? Plus, you need a shave.”

He rubbed a hand across his stubble. Huh. Son of a bitch. “Most people don’t notice.”

“Well, I’m not most people.” She folded her arms. “I swear you think I’m dumb or something. I’m a Mensa member, dickhead. I've got a big ol' brain.”

He laughed. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, shows what you know. Best be grateful you’re pretty.”

Oh ho ho. He leaned forward and put his chin in his hands. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I- No! You don’t- You’re just trying to distract me!” She was bright red, her flush reaching all the way to her ears. 

“Seems like maybe I’m doing that already.” 

She threw something at him and he ducked, hearing a loud thud as it hit the wall behind him. 

“Was that a fucking baseball?!”

“You deserved it!” He laughed and he saw the corner of her mouth twitch, despite her stormy expression. “I’m definitely not telling you anything now.”

“Ugh.” He flipped over on the bed and sighed. What else...something harmless...something light…something-

“I don’t like heights.”

She gasped. “You’re  _ afraid  _ of  _ heights? _ ”

“No, I never said afraid-”

“Aren’t you a sniper? How can a sniper be afraid of heights?”

He found himself getting uncomfortably hot. “I don’t know, you should ask someone who’s afraid of heights. Which I am not.”

“Oh, don’t worry Deacon. Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll make sure to hold your hand if we ever get above two stories, okay?”

She had an evil little smirk on her face, but honestly? Didn’t sound like a bad deal to him.

He grinned and cocked one eyebrow. “You promise?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Cross my heart.” 

"So...you and Mac?"

She gave him a soft little smile. "He was being harassed by a couple of goons in a bar, I came to the rescue, as per usual, helped him hunt down said goons, we bonded over children, I helped him find the cure for Duncan, yadda yadda yadda you know the rest." She sat on the edge of the bed. "Now he's like, my adopted big brother." 

Oof. Big brother. Sorry Mac.

She shoved on her little white tennis shoes over her matching socks. “Now come on, slowpoke. We’ve got guests incoming.”

She marched out of the house and started towards the docks, Deacon following close behind, until she held up a hand. 

“Wait, get out of the way.”

He looked around for whatever the immediate threat was, but stopped when he found her grinning and bouncing in place. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just move, silly! The ground is perfectly flat here!” 

He took a step back and watched as she leapt into a cartwheel, and finished off with a somersault in the grass, giggling the whole way. He laughed as he watched her.

“See! Perfectly flat!”

“You a gymnast, too?” Damn. She was turning out to have quite the resume.

“I was. I used to have a whole box full of gymnastics and acrobatic awards.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I like to win.”

Oh he bet she did. She was starting to round out as an agent in his mind now, intelligent, determined, small yet deceptively strong…inexplicably flexible...He’d love to test that, by the way. You know, if she ever needed a partner for- uh, stretches or something. See just how far they could push the limit of her gymnast level flexibility...

Oh, fuck. Keep it in your pants, Deacon. Think boner-killing thoughts. Gen-2 synths...What Carrington would look like naked....That time he found that neighborhood watch guy Billy jacking it to a Grognak comic…

“Oh, Deacon! He’s here!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the docks. “I have this little working theory that Polly is sweet on Nick, I want you to tell me what you think…”

The boat slowly made it to the dock as Rosie enthusiastically waved. The synth detective, smooth as ever, had one shoulder leaned against the cabin of the boat, smoking a cigarette while his fedora sat sunk over one eye. Damn. He always had loved Valentine’s sense of style.

The detective’s gravelly voice rung out over the dull roar of the waves.

“Well, you take care of yourself Polly. Wouldn’t want any harm to come to my favorite bot.”

Jeez. If assaultrons could blush.

“Thank you, Mr. Valentine. It’s a pleasure as always.”

Nick stepped onto the dock and waved. “Call me Nick, doll.”

“Of course-” A small hesitation. “Nick.” 

Damn. Motherfucker could charm a  _ robot _ .

Deacon smirked. “Old Nicky Valentine, you big flirt.”

Rosie elbowed him. “You see it too?”

“Oh, please. He’s got Polly practically steaming at the gears.” 

He waggled his eyebrows and Nick tipped his hat.

“Ah, Deacon.” He smiled at Rosie. “You sure you know what you’re doing doll? A man like Deacon is dangerous in all sorts of ways.”

He gave his best devilish grin. “Mr. Valentine, you flatter me.”

“You two on, uh...official business?”

Rosie took his arm and led him toward the house as he spoke, “Not at the moment. Just finished some- uh…” She glanced at Deacon. “Delivery facilitation?”

He chuckled. Smooth.

“And then we came back to see RJ and Duncan!” She smiled up at the detective, but his mechanical face was dark and stony.

“We need to have a conversation, doll. I’m afraid I just might be cutting the celebration short.”\

~

Rose sat with her hands folded, and her eyes on the floor. She felt the small seed of anger grow into a roaring fire in her rib cage. 

“Where is he.”

She was almost shocked at the sound of her own voice. It sounded like someone different. Someone harder.

“Fort Hagen. Been there a little over twenty four hours.”

“What do the defenses look like?” Deacon piped up from behind her and she jumped. It was strange, how she went from almost constantly aware of his presence to almost forgetting he was there. She couldn't place anything. Her vision had a strange, fuzzy quality. Everything was muffled.

Nick drew in a breath. “Pretty bad. Turrets everywhere, probably synths inside.” He tried to meet Rosie’s eyes, but she kept them firmly on the ground in front of her. “It’s no picnic.”

“How long would it take to get from here to there?” Still, she didn’t recognize her own voice. It was like she was talking underwater.

She heard Nick hesitate, and it filled her with fury.

“Uh, four, maybe five hours? If we move fast.”

She stood up so fast that it pushed the armchair backwards. Okay. This was it.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

“What?!” She gritted her teeth as Deacon protested. “Rosie, you can’t-”

She whipped around on the stairs, channeling the boiling rage in her chest into the person unlucky enough to just fucking be there.

“I can’t what? I can't do anything! Right?” She spat the words out, like they were projectiles that had no place in her mouth, soaring and impaling anyone who came too close. “You think I’m soft, Deacon. I know. Soft prewar vault dweller off to meet the big bad wolf. I’m sure he’ll think the exact same thing. But I’ll tell you one thing-”

She stomped down the stairs, grabbed him by the collar of his tee shirt, and yanked him down to her level. It probably would’ve looked silly, if she hadn’t felt anger rolling off of her like thunderclouds.

“Conrad Kellog dies today.”

And with that, she marched up the stairs into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

She needed to armor up. This was a man who was valuable solely because he was lethal. She pulled her vault suit from the trunk beneath her bed. Wouldn’t that be poetic? Pointless though. The flimsy faux leather would do nothing to stop a bullet. 

She rifled through the trunk and found her old flight suit. Hm. That could work. It was flame retardant...and the ballistic polymer weave probably hadn’t worn down too much, even if it was prewar. She looked at the shiny lining and made up her mind. This was poetic in its own way too, wasn’t it? How many times had she stared down death in this flight suit? And how many times had she emerged victorious?

She shimmied out of her blouse and jeans and zipped up the suit. Ah. This felt good. Normal. She felt like a commie-fighting, foul mouthed fighter pilot again. Blondie the flying ace. Not a scared little girl against ridiculous odds. She heard muffled yelling downstairs and felt fury bubble up in her throat. Silly men. Both of them. Thinking they can tell her what’s best. Didn’t they know who she was? Lieutenant Rosie Castevet is twenty five and has thirty two aerial victories under her belt. Rosie Castevet has never lost a wingman. Rosie Castevet was stationed as aerial support at fucking Anchorage, Alaska. Rosie Castevet got her bachelors in aerospace engineering in three years instead of four. Rosie Castevet-

There was a soft knock on the door as she pulled on her bomber jacket. She growled as she stomped over and wrenched it open.

“What.”

“Please tell me you’re not planning on going alone.”

Deacon was standing in her doorway, his mouth pressed into a firm line. She was shocked by how much he looked like somebody’s father. She almost told him so.

“I know that you think I can’t do this, but-”

“Rosie I don’t think  _ anybody _ could do this.” He rubbed a hand against his stubble. “He’s- We’re not- He’s not even completely human.”

She scoffed. “Stop being so dramatic-”

“No, Rosie.” He almost yelled it and she blinked, suddenly realizing this was the first time she’d ever heard him raise his voice. “He’s an institute asset. He reaps the rewards of that. Cybernetics, the whole bit.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do you even know all this?”

“He’s our public enemy number one. Deadlier than a courser, more sinister than bigot mobs, why do you think the institute uses him to operate on the surface? He’s ruthless. He’s a killing machine even the institute hasn’t figured out how to match yet.”

His body was taut, his hands in fists and arms slightly away from his body, like he was ready to fight. Well, Deacon. So was she.

“Then do you really think I would let you go up against this man to save my skin?” 

She stared him down through those dark glasses. She’d already taken advantage of him too much. They barely knew each other. There was no way. No way she was letting him do this.

“Do you really think I would let you do this without me?” He put a hand on the door frame, only slightly invading her space. Stubborn.

She sighed. “Deacon, I know you think I’m valuable and you don’t want to lose an agent but-”

“An agent?!” He scoffed. “For someone so smart you sure are stupid.”

She gritted her teeth. “I am not-”

“It’s not about you being an agent, Rosie! Shit!” He properly yelled at her this time, throwing his hands up in the air, and she suddenly remembered Nick calling him dangerous.

“I don’t want you to die! Okay? Just, as a person. I want you to live, and I want your son to have a mom. Fucking christ.”

Oh. She felt the all familiar pang of guilt. Then she realized how stupid she was being.

He was incredibly dangerous. A powder keg constantly on the verge of exploding. The most precise and calculating opponent in combat she had ever seen. He was cunning. Lethal. It filled her with a strange sort of twisted pride. Kellogg may be the big bad wolf, but Deacon was a fox.

And her papa had always said, a fox is just a wolf who sends flowers.

“Okay.”

She watched him release a breath. “Okay?”

“But you have to promise me something. Really promise me.”

“Name it.”

Hm. Awfully bold for a dirty rotten liar. But somehow that made it hit her in the heart even harder.

She took him by the hand, in a handshake that doubled as a vow, and spoke.

“If I die-”

“Rosie-”

“Deacon, please. I’ve faced things like this before. I know what I’m saying.”

He nodded and she continued.

“If I die-” She swallowed. Fuck. Why was this so hard to say to him? 

“I need you to finish it. Do you understand? Kellogg- He killed my husband. He doesn’t walk out of Fort Hagen alive. Do you understand me?”

He nodded again.

“And I need you- You and Nick…” She felt tears choke her and cursed. Please. Anger was useful. She didn’t need the crying bullshit.

“I need you and Nick, to find out what happened. To Shaun. To my baby. I can’t- I won’t-” She took a shaky breath, and felt Deacon ever so slightly squeeze her hand. “I need to know, that someone will take care of my baby if I’m gone. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Deacon, please. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. I will.”

She barely heard it. It came out a coarse gravelly whisper. She watched his throat wobble and applauded his superior self control.

“Thank you.” She released his hand and started towards the stairs. “And one more thing,” She pulled on the fingerless leather gloves from her pocket. “Don’t let RJ put himself at risk for any of this. He would be a wonderful substitute for-” Fuck. Nope. Still couldn’t say that. “But he has his own baby boy to worry about. He can’t go out guns blazing. I know he would want to, but- But that can’t be allowed to happen.”

He nodded once more and she took a deep breath.

“Alright. Here we come Kellogg. Alpha Mike Foxtrot.”

~

She was properly pissed when Nick insisted on coming as well, but she was tired of fighting it. If she survived, and something happened to one of them, she supposed she was just going to have to live with that guilt. Whoopee.

So here they were. Outside of a fort she vaguely remembered from before the war, armed to the teeth and more than a little angry.

She chuckled. “A prewar pilot, an unscrupulous spy, and a synth detective walk into a military fort.”

Deacon responded directly behind her. “What’s the punchline, Blondie?”

“Oh, I forget. Something about a magnum-toting murderer winding up with a bullet in his brain.”

She heard him chuckle, low and slightly sinister. “I like vengeful Rosie.” 

She smirked and shrugged. “She gets the job done.”

They entered the compound after Rosie had silently taken out all of the defensive turrets on the outside of the building, earning a low whistle of respect from Nick. Damn straight. Deliverer was a hell of a gun. The inside of the fort was eerily silent, save the small mechanical clanking sounds that confirmed Nick’s suspicions. The place was crawling with synths.

“Alright, doll. How do you wanna play this?” Nick was crouching behind a receptionist’s desk as he whispered, with Deacon against the adjacent wall.

She peeked out into the next room. It was empty, but she could hear movement slightly beyond. 

“I’m thinking...” She whispered low as she picked up a bottle cap from the concrete floor. “My own little version of a feigned withdrawal.”

She looked at Deacon and tilted her head towards an overturned nuka machine and he nodded. He made his way over, almost impossibly silent, and took cover behind the machine. Rosie took a deep breath. She flipped the bottle cap in her hand and tossed it into the center of the room.

“YOUR ATTEMPT AT STEALTH HAS FAIL-”

Quick as a flash, Deacon rose up from behind the vending machine and reduced the synth’s skull to spare parts. Five more followed and quickly dropped, three destroyed by Deacon alone.

“Damn, kid.” Nick groaned as he reloaded his pistol. “Makin’ me feel like an old man.”

Deacon grinned. “What? You want me to give you a head start next time, Valentine?”

The detective smiled. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

They went deeper and deeper into the compound, and against the three of them, the synths were of little consequence. Nick tapped the rifle strapped to her back. 

“Why don’t you use this thing? Seems like it packs a punch.”

Rosie chuckled. She was waiting for somebody to ask. She figured it would be Deacon. She grimaced as she reloaded deliverer. “Nicky, that’s a vintage nine milimeter British sten gun with wooden furniture and a welded compensator, and she packs more than just a punch. That-” She racked the slide of her pistol. “Is for a very special someone.”

Suddenly, a static erupted from over the P.A. speakers, and a voice spoke. A voice that chilled her to the bone. That felt like sandpaper across her skin. A voice that had pervaded her subconscious, and sat deep within her nightmares. She had woken up in a cold sweat several a night, hearing it echo in her ear. That fucking psycho.

“If it isn't my old friend, the frozen TV dinner. Last time we met, you were cozying up to the peas and apple cobbler.”

Rose felt every muscle in her body tense. Her face burned, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She felt a hand on your shoulder and grabbed it as she whipped around.

“Hey, hey. It’s just me.”

Deacon stood there, other hand up, and a small furrow in his brow, despite the smile that painted the rest of his face. The smile faded as he leaned close, speaking low just a few inches from her face. 

“He’s trying to rattle you. Don’t lose focus.”

She nodded, and continued down the corridors. Her rage growing with each taunt. Taunts from a dead man walking.

“Sorry your house has been a wreck for two hundred years. But I don't need a roommate. Leave.”

She released the mounting pressure in her brain on the synths. Taking them apart in the most violent ways of which she was aware.

“Hmph. Never expected you to come knocking on my door. Gave you 50/50 odds of making it to Diamond City. After that? Figured the Commonwealth would chew you up like jerky.”

She crushed a synth skull under her boot. Not an ounce of satisfaction.

“Look. You're pissed off. I get it. I do. But whatever you hope to accomplish here? It’s not going to go your way.”

Pissed off? Not even close. She had never shook so hard in her life. 

“You've got guts and determination, and that's admirable. But you are in over your head in ways you can't possibly comprehend.”

“You’re going to suffer in ways you can’t possibly comprehend.” She mumbled as another synth suffered destruction via pipe wrench.

“It's not too late. Stop. Turn around. And leave. You have that option. Not a lot of people can say that.”

She slammed a security door on a synths neck and growled. If she clenched her jaw any tighter she was going to break her teeth.

A sigh echoed over the P.A. system. “Okay, you made it. I'm just up ahead. My synths are standing down. Let's talk.”

She stopped. She was panting. Trembling. Somebody very far away was calling her name. He was here. Right through that door.

“Rosie-”

All she had to do was take a few more steps-

“Rosie!”

Turn the handle-

“Rosie!”

Deacon was in front of her, shaking her by the shoulders, Nick studying her face to his left. She blinked and looked up at him.

“Finally.” Nick sighed. “We thought we lost you there, kid.”

She frowned. “Lost me?”

“We’ve been chasing you through the whole compound.” Deacon gave her a miserable sort of smile. “You really are a synth killing machine though.”

He lowered his voice as he pushed a few curls out of her sweaty face. 

“Hey. You’re with me right?”

She nodded.

“Promise?”

She almost laughed. That was the second time today that she could’ve sworn he was somebody's father.

“Sure.”

He snorted. "Good enough." He turned her around to face the security door. The one door between her and the man who murdered her husband. The door between her and her baby and muttered low in her ear. “Make the bastard pay.”

Suddenly she felt all the messy emotions bouncing around in her body sharpen into a fine point. This was it. Fangs out.

She took a deep breath. “Boys, the big one’s mine.”

She retrieved the rifle from her back and kicked the metal security door open with a bang. The lights went up with an electric buzz, and there, flanked by synths, was the murderer of the hour. 

Kellogg emerged with his hands up, and a smug grimace painting his scarred face.

“And there she is. The most resilient woman in the Commonwealth. Funny, I thought I had that honor.”

She raised her rifle level with his ugly, bald head. “Kellogg, you murdering, kidnapping, psychopath. My son. Where is he?”

“Right to it then?” He shrugged. “Fine. Shaun. Great kid. He’s a little older than you expected, but you probably figured that out by now.” He studied her face. “No?” He chuckled, and it took everything she had not to pull the trigger. “Oh, sorry, pal. No happy reunions today. He’s not here.”

She felt like a wild animal who’d been captured. She was livid. All this fucking way, and he was gone? She grunted through her teeth. “Tell me where he is, you sick fuck.” Funny. She had been afraid she would break down, that her emotions would take over, but not a tear escaped her. They didn’t even try. This fury felt dry as a bone. Maybe she had finally been pushed past tears.

“Fine. I guess you’ve earned that much. Shaun's in a good place. Where he's safe, and comfortable, and loved. A place he calls home. The Institute.”

Rosie heard Nick curse behind her and suddenly felt icy dread take root in the bottom of her stomach. She realized her tongue was bleeding, but couldn't be bothered to unclench her teeth. “Oh, fuck you, Kellogg. Here. The institute. It doesn't fucking matter. I’ll find him no matter where he is.” She raised her chin. “And then I’ll burn the place to the fucking ground.”

“Ha! That's the spirit. You know, you surprise me, I have to admit. I find myself actually kind of... liking you." He let out a sardonic laugh that challenged her control over the growing need to just set this whole building ablaze with all of them still inside. "But I think we've been talking long enough. We both know how this has to end. So... “ He cracked his neck. “You ready?”

She laughed. It came out sinister and evil, filled with venom. Images of Nate floated in front of her eyes, until all she could think of was revenge. “Ready?” She cocked her rifle. “The moment I saw you murder my husband, I was ready to kill your sorry ass.”

Violence erupted all at once. The synths immediately came to life, and she ignored them, leaving them to the men behind her. She was focused on finding the man that just disappeared in a shimmer in front of her.

She shouted in frustration. “Fucking stealth boys!”

She dove behind the terminals as bullets came flying at her, seemingly from nowhere. Should’ve brought a fucking paintball gun. Maybe then she’d be able to see him.

Her eyes fell on a nuka cherry tossed and forgotten in a desk drawer. Hm. 

She dove for the bottle and scurried under the desk. A sickening crack echoed through the air, and she turned to see Deacon doubled over, blood pouring from his nose as two synths cornered him on either side. Deacon sent a forceful kick backwards, making contact and inverting one synth’s plastic kneecap. It stumbled, unable to move and he immediately straightened, turning his attention to the bot in front of him. He grabbed the synth by the neck using it as a body shield, as he shot the injured synth between the eyes. He then twisted the bot’s neck in his hands, sending sparks flying from the base of its mechanical skull. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and shook himself off, heading for a synth sending shots at Nick behind a small cabinet. Rosie, recovering from her brief moment of panic, popped up from behind the desk, and lobbed the nuka cola in the vague direction of a small shimmer in the corner of the room. It cracked, exploded and fizzed over an invisible form, and she took her opportunity, firing shot after shot at...soda foam. God, she was fucking crazy.

A shot finally landed, and the cloak seemed to crack and fizzle away, leaving Kellogg, visible and exposed, clutching his shoulder. He dove behind terminals, and Rosie felt a surge of adrenaline. This was her opening. She took the offensive, leaping over the desk and charging forward, diving behind a row of terminals just as Kellogg reared his ugly head. A few shots fired above her, and she heard a pained yell. Good. Every shot was hurting him.

She slid across a row of terminals and saw him, just a few feet ahead of her, in the very center of the room. She took a breath, time slowing down as she leveled her shot, unfiltered rage coursing through her veins. She fired one, two, three shots as she continued to move toward him. The third landed, causing Kellogg to flounder in pain, losing his pistol in the process. Rosie watched it slide across the floor and felt it. Victory.

She watched as Kellogg opened his mouth to scream, but just a small, pained gurgle came out. She had gotten him in the lungs. It filled her with a sick sort of glee. He was in extreme pain, and could do absolutely nothing about it. She felt suddenly wild, feral even, as she raced to where Kellogg lay dying. She grabbed him by the collar and stared into his eyes as blood poured from his mouth. 

“LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME KELLOGG!” She shook him violently by the collar, screaming so loud her voice cracked and she felt a painful twinge in her throat. This still somehow wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. She lowered her voice, hissing into his contorted face. A woman deranged. “I want you to look at my face...Look at me Kellogg.” He coughed, and anger surged through her brain. “Remember my husband? Picture him...Remember what he looked like, seconds before you killed him...” She pulled him up until he winced with pain. “Now look at my face...and know...Know that this is your reckoning, Kellogg. Know that I was your biggest and last mistake...” A growl escaped her throat as she stared deep into his bloodshot eyes- 

"Know that I was your undoing.” 

A searing burn hit right above her stomach, and she gasped in surprise, but she didn't move. She stared firmly as his eyes slowly drained, and became fuzzy and unfocused. She sat there and waited. Watched him slowly, painfully die. He finally was reduced to a corpse in her hands, and she released his collar, his body dropping limply to the floor. A sudden pain shot through her midriff as she moved, and she cried out, clutching at her stomach. The fabric there felt warm and sticky, and she cursed as she finally noticed the combat knife laying in Kellogg’s now lifeless hand. Motherfucker had stabbed her, and she hadn't even noticed. He killed her husband, stole her baby, and he had the gall to add insult to injury even now? Fuck.

She fell backwards, suddenly too dizzy to focus. She felt light headed and weak, far too empty to exist. Shit. Blood loss. He had stuck her right where it hurts. She let out a feeble cry for help, but no sound returned. Couldn’t anybody hear her? She’d been lying here for so long. Or she just collapsed. Time was tricky. Felt slippery. She heard far off yelling, and wondered what Nate and Papa were arguing about.

Suddenly hands were heaving her body upright and a cry escaped her. Her abdomen trembled and jerked in pain. Fuzzy white light danced in front of her eyelids, until a dark shape loomed over her. It was talking. She felt herself suddenly start sobbing, as strong hands pressed down on the wound in her stomach. He was hurting her! She tried to push the hand away, but the man told her no. To stay with him. 

Oh!  _ Deacon! _

He kept telling her things. Stay with him. Breathe. But she was already breathing! Deacon was so silly. She felt cool air hit her skin. Good. These clothes were too heavy anyway. She felt a slight pinch, and then a coolness seeped through her veins, starting at the deep wound in her abdomen, and reaching out and everywhere. Then another small pinch in her arm, and she was warm. Heavy. She let herself fall deep, into a wonderful and comfortable sleep.

Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have NO idea how much I loved writing bad ass Rosie, lol.
> 
> Give Tinker Bell a gun you cowards.
> 
> <3
> 
> P.S. There isn't a whole lot of lore for how ballistic weave is supposed to work in the fallout universe, so I kind of created my own, lol. It's really thin, but reflects energy? Sort of? So you can cut it just like regular fabric, but when it's hit by a high speed projectile, (such as a bullet,) the energy deflects, leaving nothing more than a particularly nasty bruise. That's why Rosie could be stabbed, even with her flight suit on.
> 
> P.P.S. Also we're gonna say ballistic weave was standard in all military issued uniforms. Yes indeed we are. ;)


	12. Gigahertz and Nanoseconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot of...feelings? Thoughts? I dunno.
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3

Deacon sat on a rickety chair, watching a pale Rosie take shaky breaths on a cot in the Sanctuary field hospital. 

Nick had said that it was best to bring her here. That it was closer. He was right, of course. Stimpaks could only do so much, and she had lost so much blood…

But he just wished she could wake up in her own bed. In her bright, happy house. In her home.

He had completely panicked. Gone into total survival mode. He wished he could get the image out of his mind. Rosie, white as a sheet and sprawled out on the floor, laying in a puddle of blood, already soaking all the way up to her hair...He wanted that image out of his brain. Lifting her up and watching blood drip, thick and slow from her curls, unsure if it was hers or Kellogg's. Or both.

He remembered picking her up. Remembered hoisting her into his lap while he pressed down on her stomach. He remembered babbling words of comfort, as Nick had torn through his backpack for stims. Even then, after the stimpak had stitched up the wound, she layed in his lap, convulsing from shock and the monumental amount of blood she lost. It took a whole vial of med-x before she finally stilled, and drifted into sleep. He was so, so grateful when her breathing finally steadied and her eyes closed, instead of staring up at him, her eyes glassy and full of tears, looking to him for help. 

Then, after Nick thoroughly searched the room and Kellogg himself, he had carried her to Sanctuary. Nick led the way, as Deacon prayed that she wouldn’t wake up, prayed that she didn’t feel every small jolt as they walked, prayed she didn’t feel any pain. Then, when they finally made it, all hell broke loose. The town was crowded with people, who all went berserk when they saw their steadfast general being carried bridal style into town, unconscious. He finally met the famous Curie, who went from fretful to stone cold professional in the blink of an eye. She told them that somebody needed to be with her when she woke up, that she would be extremely disoriented and upset, and Deacon hadn’t left the room since.

Rosie took a particularly ragged breath, and Deacon tensed, but she just mumbled and nodded back off. They got here at six in the evening. It was now four a.m..

He had told Nick to go. They had a whole new problem now, with her kid in the institute, and he had people to talk to. Things to figure out. So he sent him off. Told him that when she was ready, they should have a next step.

“Deacon?”

If it hadn’t been completely silent, he wouldn’t have heard it. It was a pitiful whisper. Barely even sounded like her.

He scrambled over to her bedside, still terrified by how pale and sweaty she was.

“Hey! Good morning sleepy head. You know, if you were gonna lay around all day, you shoulda told me. Could've had a whole movie night planned, lazy bones.”

She frowned. Confused.

“He’s dead.”

He nodded, wincing at his failed attempt at distraction. “Yeah, Kellogg’s dead, Rosie. He’s dead.”

She looked down, her hand barely ghosting over her stomach, but wincing anyway.

“He...motherfucker…”

“Yeah,” He laughed, but it came out pained and forced. “He did. He hurt you real bad, baby. Gave you your own personal gutting, free of charge.”

She looked at him, suddenly tearful. “I’m so sorry…”

“What?!” He grabbed the hand that didn’t have an I.V. in it between both of his hands. “No, no, no, no, Rosie. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry, I should never have let that- I shouldn’t have-” He sighed, hanging his head. He should’ve caught it sooner. He should’ve known, but she hadn’t made a damn sound. It was almost like she didn’t know she'd even been stabbed until it was too late.

She gave him a small smile through her tears, and it about broke all the self control he had left. 

“You saved me.”

No. He didn't. “Curie saved you, baby. Me and Nick held you over till you got here was all.”

“No.” She blanched. “I remember.” Her body suddenly became restless, and she looked around. “I- I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Curie had said that might happen. Emotional trauma mixed with physical shock and all that. He held up the metal bucket she had placed by the bed and moved to hold her hair as she gagged and choked. Christ. What he wouldn't give for a magic wand. Poof! Here's your kid. Poof! You're all better. Poof! He had actually managed to fulfill the promise he made to himself.

She finally sat back and he moved to put the bucket just outside the door. Curie had said this setup was just temporary for her, that she was moving to Spectacle island when the lab was built, but honestly, it was pretty nice. A field hospital set up in one of those prewar houses. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was clean. Smelled like antiseptic.

Rosie groaned and fidgeted in the hospital cot. “I don’t feel good.”

“Really? Even with my sparkling personality lighting up the room? Well, if that's the case maybe we should drink something now, yeah?” Rosie shook her head and he scowled. “Rosie, I can’t give you any medicine until you replace the fluids you just lost.”

“I can’t.”

He held his hand up to her forehead. She was still cold and clammy. “You sure? Cause I’m pretty sure you can.” He took one of the cans of water from the bedside table and cracked it open.

“Why do I feel so bad? What are stimpaks even for?”

_Because you finally killed the man who murdered your husband, and yet feel no comfort whatsoever. Oh! And the Insitute has your baby. You know, nothing big._

“Stimpaks replace tissue. Blood loss still sucks, especially when you don't have the adrenaline to speed everything up.” He poured the can into a small paper cup. Maybe that would seem easier. “Besides, stimpaks work better the quicker you use them and the shallower the injury and he-” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “He got you pretty bad.” He held out the cup and she scrunched up her nose. It was so much more Rosie-like that it made him smile. “Don’t give me that face. That’s nothing. You can drink that, you big baby.”

She took it one shaky hand and drank. She had almost drained it when she gasped in pain and clutched her stomach. “It still hurts.”

“Big knives'll do that to you. Let me go get Curie and we can see if we can give you something.”

“I thought you said you could give me more!”

He smiled. “Yep. I did. I sure did say that.”

She let out a small sob. “You lied to get me to drink water!”

He shrugged. “Sue me.”

He walked down the small hallway to find Curie typing away at her terminal. She started when she heard him come in.

“Oh! Monsieur Deacon! Is Madame awake?”

He chuckled despite himself. He couldn’t help it. You could just tell that Curie had once been a robot. Her smiles were just a bit too wide, her eyes slightly too open. Luckily it made her puppy level adorable rather than creepy. Most of the time.

“Yeah, but she’s still hurting pretty bad.”

“Oh! That’s no problem! We can administer another dose of Med-X. She will probably just return to sleep, but that will give her body the proper time to heal. I can administer it if you do not feel comfortable-”

“Oh no, that’s alright. You keep working, Curie. I wouldn't want to deprive Sanctuary of their brightest mind.” He gave her his best little boy grin and she lit up.

“Oh, mon dieu! You are so kind, Monsieur Deacon. You make poor little Curie’s heart beat so fast!” She went back to humming and typing in her terminal, and Deacon chuckled as he left. He could see why she and Rosie got along.

He gingerly stepped back into Rosie’s room. She laid there, expressionless and unfocused. “Hey, pal. Who's ready for some drugs?”

She didn’t even lift her head. 

“Rosie, I can give-”

“My baby’s not here.”

Aaand there goes his heart. Shit. 

“No. No he’s not.”

“And-” She hiccuped and tears slid down her face. “And he may not be- He’s not a baby anymore…”

He nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.

“And he’s- He’s with the…” She sobbed. “They-”

He knelt by the cot. “I know, Rosie. I know.” He cupped her face in his hands and tried to brush away the tears that were still rapidly falling. “Rosie please don't cry. I'm useless when you start crying.” Pure truth. Another sob hit her and she gasped again in pain. He shook his head. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

He laid her head back down against the pillow and retrieved the Med-X syringe from the table at the foot of the bed. He took one arm in his hands. “Relax your arm for me, sweetheart. Please.” He suddenly realized that he was struggling through his own tears and berated himself. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need to pity him, too. She was still holding her arms to her stomach, though, and he didn’t want to force her to move. He was too afraid to hurt her.

“Rosie, please. I can’t help you if you won’t relax.” Between her sobs and his own feverish thoughts, he felt himself starting to panic. “Rosie, listen to me!”

She quieted for a moment before speaking, her lip wobbling, “Take the glasses off.”

It wasn't a command. Not really. It was soft and sweet, like she was trying to coax a scared animal out of a corner. He supposed she was. 

“I can’t do that, Rosie.”

She stared at him, white as a ghost, tear streaked, and all together miserable looking, and he felt his will slowly chip away, despite the fear that was strangling him by the throat.

“Please?” Her voice was so small, and she looked so young when she said it, that a wave of pity and protectiveness overtook him. “Please?” She said it again. One simple request.

Maybe she wouldn't remember. She was about to be totally doped up. It would be like it never happened. A bad dream. Shit. He was actually rationalizing it. Was he actually gonna do this?

He raised a now slightly shaking hand to the frames and slowly took them off. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light, and set the glasses on the bedside table. All at once he felt raw. Exposed. It was such a small, stupid action, yet it was so fucking difficult to look her in the eye now.

“Happy?”

She was staring into his eyes like she was staring at the sun, her own pupils blown wide . She reached out a still trembling hand, like she thought about touching him, but dropped it.

“Blue. How pretty.”

He smiled. “Not as pretty as yours.”

Something strange passed over her face. She nodded solemnly. “I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you have to wear them.” She gestured shakily, spreading her arms out wide. “You’re so open.”

He shook his head, chuckling, suddenly very interested in the bed sheets. This was too much. She was too smart, he knew she would figure him out too quickly. “Yeah, yeah. Can I give you this now?”

She nodded, and he took her arm, slowly injecting the needle while she winced.

“You’re good at that.”

“I know.”

She giggled. It was small, but it made his heart jump nonetheless.

“Was that a laugh?”

“Mhm."

He injected the last of the Med-X and slowly removed the needle. “Well something tells me you’re about to laugh a lot more, missy.”

He tossed the syringe into the ‘medical waste container’ that was actually just a trash can with caution tape wrapped around it and turned back to Rosie, who had gone back to desperately searching his eyes. He smiled. Couldn’t help it. Her face reminded him of a baby seeing a mobile for the first time. Med-X was one hell of a drug. He frowned thoughtfully, asking a question he hadn't gotten around to yet. “Rosie, how old are you?”

“Twenty five, but I’ll be twenty six in July. Why?”

Well, shit. Didn’t that make him feel like a dirty old man. “No reason, baby.” Yeah, in more ways than one.

Her eyes went glossy and she sighed. “How old are you?”

Greedy, greedy. Shit. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Awww, come on! I got you to take your glasses off…”

He smiled. “Yeah, and that makes you pretty damn special, dollface. So I’d just enjoy it while you can.”

“Oooh...Am I special? Hmmm…”

She laughed softly, reaching out a hand and actually making contact with his face this time. Light as a feather, she trailed her fingertips across his cheekbone and all the way down to his jaw, sending shock-waves through his body. Her face was slack and starry-eyed. 

“Like aquamarine.” Her eyes darted around his face as she slowly laid down. “You’re so pretty.”

He tried to stamp down his blush, but knew from the way the corners of her mouth twitched she caught it anyway. “Not as pretty as you.”

She laughed softly as she settled into her pillow, barely keeping her eyes open.

“How about we go to bed now, huh?” Please. Before she said anything else that made his brain stop working. She nodded. Sleepy and docile as he reached across the bed and turned off the wall lamp above the cot, leaving the room in semi darkness. He went to sit, but Rosie’s small hand reached up and held him by the collar. He froze and stared down at her. She had stopped him right above her face, and now he was so close that he could see every individual eyelash, still sparkling with tears. He could feel her breath.

“What’re you doing, Rosie?” He tried to keep his tone light, despite the rising lump in his throat.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wondering. A woman transfixed. Her hand still held tight around his shirt collar, despite her trembling.

“Nothin’.”

He pretended not to notice as she glanced at his mouth.

“Okay.” Her hand still didn’t move. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” 

She slowly released her grip on his shirt, but lingered there, her hand ghosting along his chest as he moved, and he hoped upon hope she didn’t notice the shiver it sent through him. He grabbed his pack and stood, heading for the door.

She giggled dreamily behind him, and he turned in the doorway as she sunk deeper into her pillows.

“I’m special…” She sighed.

 _Yeah._ He thought. _You are._

“Go to sleep, crazy. You're trippin' balls.”

They stayed in Sanctuary for the next few days, with Curie saying that her injuries were suffering due to anemia and 'severe emotional distress.' And yeah, that pretty much checked out. So, he entertained himself. He read her some of his paperbacks and did all the silly voices, he tried to climb on top of as many roofs as possible, he stole things from Marcy Long and put them back in weird places just because he could. But then, on day five she finally cried so much about wanting to go home and sleep in her own bed that Curie finally entertained it. 

“Does this hurt?”

Deacon stood, leaning against the doorway as Curie kneaded a spot on Rosie’s abdomen. She sucked in a breath and winced.

“Yes.”

“Interesting. How about this?”

“OW! Jesus shit, Curie!”

Deacon whistled. “The mouth on you, young lady! Hold on for just a minute, let me get the soap.”

Curie stood and scrubbed her hands in the sink, both women ignoring him. “Well, Madame, it seems that while the improper healing of the wound is uncomfortable, I don’t believe you are in danger of further internal bleeding.” She straightened her lab coat. “Returning to the island would not put you in immediate physical danger, however it may not be altogether…” She tilted her head. “Comfortable.”

Rosie frowned. “What do you mean it didn’t heal properly?”

Curie grumbled, annoyed. “ _Choses stupides._ This is precisely what I am trying to fix.” She sighed. “Stimpaks were a medical marvel because of how quickly the repaired tissue damage, but with that remarkable speed comes increased risk of the tissue not healing properly, especially if it is not set in just the right position. Your wound was incredibly deep, to the point of slight organ damage. The stimpak stitched you back together, but not without leaving bunches of bundled scar tissue behind. That is what is causing you pain.”

Rosie blinked. Curie said it all without taking a breath. “Oh. Cool.”

“Now, you are still worryingly anemic, so I would recommend continued bed rest as you regain fluid and iron levels. Other than that, I am discharging you! Congratulations, Madame!” And with that, Curie gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and dashed out of the room.

A half hour later, she was ambling over to meet her at the town gate, dressed in what looked like a mechanic’s jumpsuit and a large knit cardigan, carrying a bundle of bloody fabric in her arms. He had dashed off to leave a message for one of their runners: “Morning Star Terminated.” Hot damn. Everyone at HQ was gonna flip their lid.

“You ready to go?”

She nodded and gestured toward the blood stained bundle in her arms. “I think Codsworth might be able to fix it. I can sew the gash, it's just…”

Deacon felt his chest tighten. “Is it worth saving?”

“Well, it was mine from before...before the bombs. I just don’t wanna-”

Sentimental object. Got it. “I get it. You're a hoarder. Totally fine by me.”

Deacon had to admit, with her Minutemen patrolling through the commonwealth, the trip to the island was a hell of a lot quieter than he thought it would be. If you stuck to the major roads now, your trip was very likely to go uninterrupted. They passed several trade caravans, small minutemen patrols, and… a mail carrier? He hadn't seen one of those yet.

“Rosie,” He turned and watched the man go by with his satchel and a guard dog in tow. “Do your settlements have...mail?”

She nodded. “Some of the bigger ones do, yeah.”

Damn. That was impressive. Things had changed more in the last few months than they had in years. Seems somebody really made the Minutemen live up to their cause. He heard her take a deep breath, and looked over. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” Her jaw was clenched, and her forehead was sweating. Dirty liar.

_Hypocrite._

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

“Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“What, you’re the only one who gets to lie?” She let out a small whimper and stopped in her tracks.

Deacon shook his head. “So stubborn.”

She spoke through her teeth, clutching her stomach. “Look who’s talking.”

Hm. Someone was obviously still not used to his total lack of personal boundaries.

He put an arm behind her knees and swept her up, earning a surprised gasp.

“What are you doing?!”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“You can’t _carry me_ to the island Deacon-”

“Why not? I carried you to Sanctuary.”

A small pause.

“You did?”

“Nah, we tossed you in a wheelbarrow and carted you over there.” She giggled and he continued. “Rosie, you’re literally the size and weight of a bag of flour. Stop trying to make me feel like an old man.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her head fall against his shoulder as she sighed. Yeah, that’s what he thought.

“You never did tell me how old you were.”

His shoulders tensed as he walked. “You remember all that?”

She nodded. “Relax. I promise I won’t tell anyone you have soulful blue eyes.”

He smiled. “Good. I promise I won’t tell anyone how pretty you think I am.” She gasped. “You know, on second thought, I don’t promise that at all. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna tell everybody.”

“You’re the worst.”

She was as lively as he’d seen her in days on the trip to the island. She insisted upon walking several times, but always tired out eventually and went back to being carried. Deacon was shocked at the lack of resistance on the roads. The only thing they encountered en route was a pack of wild dogs that Rosie had begged him to startle instead of shoot. Big baby. It’s not like they were the kind of dogs she was used to. 

Rosie was giggly and happy for the most part, albeit slightly grumpy from drowsiness, but being carried piggyback while he sang show tune melodies that he knew _most_ of the words to seemed to cheer her right up.

She tapped on his shoulder as they came into view of the Castle.

“Hey, let me down, big guy. I have to be seen as their fearless leader, inspiring fear in our foes and what not.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t tell your loyal soldiers that their general likes to be carried while the entirety of ‘Damn Yankees’ is sung badly at her?”

“Not unless you want me to tell them about your dulcet tones and fear of heights.”

“Fair enough.” He let her down and she swayed slightly before marching towards the Castle. “And I’m _not_ afraid of heights.”

"Mhm."

She marched through the courtyard, head held high despite the small winces that she couldn’t stamp down.

A man in a long, khaki colored coat waved from the training yard and jogged over.

“General! Haven’t seen you in a couple days.”

“Hi, Preston.” She sighed. “I’ve been busy.”

He took an awkward glance at Deacon. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, I’m sorry, pal. I’m meeting an honest to goodness minuteman and here I am without my autograph book!”

Preston furrowed his brow and tilted his head, more confused than offended. “Right, well what’s the story? Apparently you ran off in a hurry.”

“Some other time, Preston, honey. I’ve got things waiting for me on the island.”

He grinned. “Right. Don't wanna keep you. Welcome home, General.”

He saluted, and went right back to the soldiers in the training yard, who were now all equipped with laser muskets for target practice.

When they finally made it to the docks, Macready was standing there waiting for them, his arms folded and his foot tapping out an agitated rhythm on the ground. Deacon almost laughed. Mac was really filling into the daddy role wasn’t he? Rosie approached from the docks, suddenly bashful. Coward. What was he gonna do, scowl menacingly?

“Hi, RJ.”

“Mhm. You’ve got something you want to tell me?”

‘Who, me? Not particularly, why?”

What a brat. Deacon chuckled, earning him an angry glance from Mac. 

“Really, Rosie?”

She sighed. “Okay, I’m coming.”

Macready turned on his heel and marched off toward his house. Rosie trailing behind. She turned and mouthed, _“I’m in trouble,”_ and he gave her a thumbs up as she threw her head back in a dramatic sigh. Deacon smiled, like it was a reflex, and started off to explore the island.

He wanted to see this half-built lab he’d been hearing all about.

~

Rosie sat on Mac’s cushy patchwork armchair, Duncan bouncing on her knee and sighed.

“It’s fine, RJ.”

“No, it really isn’t!” He was pacing through the house, anger rolling off of him and filling the room. “Do you even know who that guy is Rosie? He’s-”

“Excuse me?” She covered Duncan’s ears. “Do I know who he is, RJ? I’m the one that put an end to the insufferable bastard so I would say yeah, I know who he is.”

“I’m not talking about Kellogg.”

She felt a stab of anxiety in her chest, but played it off with casual annoyance.

“Honestly, not this again…”

“He’s a spy. He knows nothing but lies and manipulation and- and-” He huffed, “He was bad news in the Capital Wasteland, Rosie! And now he’s here, mixing up identities, making sure nobody knows who he actually is-”

“RJ-”

“You think Kellogg was ruthless! He was just as well known for it! Him and that motherfucker…”

“RJ!”

Mac sighed. “Christ, I’m sorry.” He looked down at Duncan. “How ‘bout we go play in your room, huh buddy?”

Duncan nodded and Rosie stood, wincing as she handed the small boy over to his father. Mac caught it. Shit. She watched his expression sour further as he took Duncan to his room. When he returned, he was cracking his knuckles.

“You’re hurt.”

“No, I was hurt. I’m better now.”

“You don’t seem better.”

“I just told you I was, or am I a liar by association?”

She watched his self control slip as he words burst out of his mouth, “You know he’s a liar! You said it yourself! How can you possibly trust a man like that?!”

“He saved my life for one thing!” 

They were properly shouting now, and she could see the vein starting to pop out in Mac’s forehead.

“Oh, he saved your life? Great! So you can be alive and well when he plans to use you later on. Honestly, Rosie-”

“What, so I’m being groomed, or something? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes! You are! He wants you to trust him, so he can move you around like a pawn. Just wait, Rosie, he’ll manipulate you, he’ll isolate you, and then the moment you’re no longer useful, he’ll drop you like a hot box of rocks, because that's what those kinds of people do.”

There were tears in the back of her eyes, but she forced them back. She was pretty sure she taught him that particular phrase, and now he was using it against her.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, RJ.” She watched the anger drain out of him as he deflated, and a small amount of guilt clouded his eyes. “You better go explain all the yelling to Duncan.” He looked like he was going to argue but left anyway, and Rosie took the opportunity to slip out the front door.

What was the deal with all these boys trying to tell her what to do, anyway? She can’t kill Kellogg, she can’t trust Deacon, she was getting real tired of people trying to boss her around. She responded to the sudden and searing pain in her stomach with a grimace. Stupid fucking stimpaks. Maybe she was only angry because he confirmed her own suspicions, that he was just using her. He had tried to manipulate her before, he had lied and she had caught it, but maybe that was the plan. Maybe he was luring her into a sense of security, trying to make her feel like she had him figured out.

But when she was in the hospital cot, doped up on enough Med-X to finally ask him to take those glasses off, she had seen him. Really seen him. He thought she wouldn’t remember, but she did. How could she not? It was like seeing someone cut open. He was raw, like an exposed nerve. He constantly schooled his face, but he couldn’t stop emotion from seeping into his eyes. And that's when she had seen something. While he had sat there, vulnerable and scared. She saw something warm and fond overtake him. Tenderness, and caring and something that looked remarkably close to—

“Rosie!”

Deacon was jogging towards her, tense and concerned, and fear poked at her brain. His neck was craned towards the sky and she looked up…

_“People of the Commonwealth!”_

Holy shit. Was that a fucking blimp? The thing blocked out the sun over the island as a masculine and commanding voice boomed from it.

_“Do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful.”_

She heard a growl as Deacon appeared next to her. “Yeah, right.”

_“We are the Brotherhood of Steel!"_

Vertibirds buzzed off of the ship like small insects and Rosie gaped, open mouthed at the sky. “ _That’s_ the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Yeah.” Deacon scoffed. “Would you look at that? Damn.”

“Paladin Danse made it sound...different.”

A strange look came across his face. “Paladin _who?_ ”

Christ on a cracker. Was he gonna get his panties all in a twist too? “Paladin Danse. Really sweet guy, if a little obtuse. He mentioned he was calling in backup but...jeez.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “So, let me get this straight...You have an in with the Brotherhood?”

“Well...Yes, I suppose I do.” Hm. That made her think.

Deacon ran a hand over the ginger stubble steadily getting longer at the top of his head. “Look, back in the Capital Wasteland, the Brotherhood was a force to be reckoned with. Them plus a giant airship-”

She had already made up her mind. Somebody needed to tell the Brotherhood of Steel that the Commonwealth already had a force to be reckoned with, thank you very much. Her name was Rosie Castevet, and she was the General of the whole entire Commonwealth fucking Minutemen.

“We have to get on that ship.” She soldiered on, not bothering to wait for his inevitable protesting, “Clue them in to the Minuteman’s strength and find out how big of a threat they could be to the Railroad at the same time. Two birds, one stone.”

“That’s exactly what I was gonna say.” He was wearing a strange expression. He was grinning at her with something that looked an awful lot like...something. Was he...proud? Huh.

“You were?”

He laughed. “I knew you were whip smart, but damn. You’ve got this whole strategic subterfuge thing down pat, haven’t you?” He shrugged. “Or you’re pretty close, anyway.”

Now she was confused. He had expected her to berate her. Tell her it was dangerous, or that she was taking risks unnecessarily. But now he was beaming down at her with pride, and all her frustration melted away.

“I thought- I thought you were going to say I shouldn’t go.”

He frowned. “Why the fuck would I say that?”

“I just thought- Maybe you’d think it was risky...or dangerous or something-”

“Babycakes, risky and dangerous is exactly where I operate.” He chuckled. “Besides, wasn’t it you who walked into a room with Conrad ‘Fuckface’ Kellogg and left it alive? Pretty sure I can’t tell you anything’s too dangerous anymore.”

Now she was smiling. Huh. How did he always do that? Just a couple sentences and she went from angry and petulant to trying desperately to stop herself from asking for a gold star. 

Maybe it was manipulation. Maybe he was telling her exactly what she wanted to hear. But she just couldn’t help implicitly trusting him. His presence was a constant comfort even as her emotions floundered, wild and out of control. He made her feel secure, even when everything about him was clouded in lies and mystery.

The butterflies that crawled into her stomach seemed to agitate the wound there, and she doubled over, wincing. Oh, right. She was supposed to be taking iron pills and dosing on Med-X while she sat on her ass and Codsworth fussed. Not plotting sneaky militant strategies.

She felt Deacon’s hand on her back and again felt grateful for his presence, despite the sharp pain persisting in her abdomen. “Maybe infiltrating the Brotherhood will have to wait a day or two huh?” He rubbed her back as she straightened and she fought to stay solid and not turn into a puddle under his touch. “You haven’t taken anything yet, have you?”

She shook her head. Med-X just made her so loopy. She was always afraid she would just blurt out whatever fool thought entered her head. Especially all the little secret thoughts she kept shoved in the back of her brain. You know, the one’s about the strikingly dishonest and dangerous man next to her, who was currently looking at her with soft concern, his hand making small, soothing circles at the small of her back.

He just _had_ to constantly contradict himself, didn’t he? They walked together into the house, and she felt herself relax a little as she entered the house. She watched the corner of Deacon’s mouth twitch and knew he caught it. Smug bastard. She needed to hide her tells better.

Codsworth was whizzing around in the kitchen, and immediately started babbling when one of his eyeballs saw Rosie come through the door.

“Oh, mum! Mister Macready said you were injured-”

She huffed. How had he even done that so fast? RJ and his big mouth.

“So I’m making your favorite! Fried green tomatoes! Or…” His eyes swiveled to the ingredients scattered on the kitchen counters, “Something very reminiscent, I’m sure. Tatos do have a similar flavor profile, do they not?”

She chuckled. Sweet Codsworth. Trying desperately to emulate prewar dishes with postwar ingredients.

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful, Codsworth.” Another surge of pain swept through her stomach and she winced. Codsworth swiveled around at the sound and immediately dashed over in concern.

“Oh, Miss Rosie! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine Codsworth.” The pain subsided and left her with a dull soreness. “Do you remember where I stashed my iron pills?”

“Oh, mum…” Codsworth tutted, “Have you not been keeping up with your regimen? Anemia can be quite destructive, you know.”

Another sharp burst and Rosie felt frustration bloom once more. “The pills, Codsworth?” She didn’t like being off her rocker for hours at a time, but damn, she really wanted to retreat upstairs and jam that fucking syringe in her arm right about now.

Codsworth opened up the cabinet above the refrigerator and retrieved a small bottle. “Here you are, mum! Now you better get up to bed and rest. Don’t want another fainting spell do we?”

She nodded and took the bottle, practically hearing a small question mark appear above Deacon’s head. “Thank you, Codsworth.” She retreated up the stairs, feeling a small twinge with every step. Christ. She needed a nap.

She took a deep breath once she was in her bedroom, smiling softly at the sight of her cozy bed, with a soft ocean breeze coming through the window directly adjacent. She loved living by the sea. Even if it was highly irradiated. She felt rather than heard Deacon slide past her as he entered the room and set their things down by the laundry. She still couldn't figure out how he managed to move so quietly. He'd have to teach her that.

“So something tells me grumpy-pants is ready for another shot?”

She frowned. She had every right to be grumpy. Still, he was the one who had to administer it, so maybe she should be sweet. Or get over her silly aversion to needles. Hm. Option one seemed a bit easier at the moment. She stuck her lip out and pouted. “Would you please? My poor feminine hands aren't as skilled as _yours._ ” Okay, so maybe she wasn't super good at being sweet.

He just chuckled and shook his head. “Well, since you asked _so_ nicely.”

He retrieved a small syringe from one of their bags and she shook off her sweater, rolling up the sleeve of her jumpsuit. It was awfully comfy, actually. Too big for her, of course, but very comfortable. She felt a small pinch and sucked in a breath, looking away from her arm as Deacon administered the medicine. Deacon laughed when she cursed.

“Yeah, I had something like this once. Buckshot tore apart my shoulder and the stimpak put it back together all fucked up. Still hurts when it rains.”

She frowned as the now familiar tingly feeling reached her head. Here we go. Fading away into dreamland. “You make yourself sound like an old man.”

He took the syringe out of her arm and tossed it in the trash can. “I keep telling you, I am an old man sweetheart.”

Mmm. _Sweetheart_. She felt bubbly, tickled pink. She just barely stopped herself from asking him to call her that again. She still asked the million dollar question though, “How old are you?”

“Still not telling. Besides, it’s your turn.”

Awwe, phooey. She felt a small gust of wind and held her hand to where it tickled her face. “My turn?”

“Yeah, doll. I told you about my old man shoulder, now you gotta tell me something.”

She pouted. Sneaky. Who came up with that game anyway? Oh right. Her. Whoopsie!

“Maybe about your famous ‘fainting spells?’”

She grinned up at him. She knew it. “Don’t like being out of the loop, huh, Big D?” She spread her arms wide, “Gotta know eeeverything.”

He smiled softly. Those little ones that made her think about how he was with kids. “You know me, Blondie. Now spill.”

She giggled. “Nothin’ to spill! When I was pregnant my iron levels were real bad, and I would faint sometimes.” She ghosted a hand along her tummy, feeling warm at the thought of her baby. Stopping slightly and kneading at the sizable knot of tissue near her navel. Weird. Barely hurt now. “It didn’t go away after I had the baby though, so I had to keep taking the pills.”

Deacon stood up. “Speaking of…” He handed her an open can of water. Huh. When had he done that? She felt him lift her other hand and drop two pills in it. “Mkay. Swallow.”

Oh ho ho! Rosie giggled to herself, thinking she was the funniest person alive. He tapped the can of water and she gave him a wicked smile. “Oh, relax, pretty boy. I’ll swallow if you want me to.” She could’ve sworn he went pink, and she collapsed against the headboard in a fit of giggles. She felt pleasantly light-headed, and also problematically ballsy.

He shook his head. “Real funny, kid. Take your pills.”

She pouted but took them anyway, spilling a small amount of water as she struggled to get the can to her mouth. She swallowed and held up her can of water in a mock toast. “Got it!” She laughed a little. She wanted the proud smile again. Gold star please!

He took the can from her, and she finally noticed how dirty he looked. “Hey! You need a bath.”

He frowned playfully. “Well whose fault is that, sassy pants? Who was it that made me chase those mutant dogs out of that _landfill?_ ”

“Oh yeah! And you fell in that pile of garbage!” She fell into another fit of giggles that made her eyes water.

He chuckled, and she thought about grabbing him and listening to it rumble in his chest. “I could’ve just shot them and been over with it but _no-_ ”

“No! Poor puppies…” She wrinkled her nose and snorted with laughter. “Garbage man.”

He moved forward and loomed over her on the bed, “Oh, kitten. Saying such sweet things makes me wanna give you one hell of a hug.” He lurched forward and she squealed as she wormed away. She was clean! No garbage stink for her. He inched ever closer. "What? No cuddle session for poor garbage man? Geez, after I carried you here and everything."

Her mind stuck on the way he had called her _kitten._ Even if he was just teasing...he could tease her all he wanted. She chuckled. All night long if he wanted to. Mmmm... _wow..._ Med-X was wonderful!

Deacon sniffed at his shirt and wrinkled his nose. “Oh, jeez. I think I will go and uh...freshen up.” He started towards the bathroom. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, young lady, cause I'll know. I see all.”

She nodded as he grabbed his pack and closed the door. Hm. She was wrong about this jumpsuit. It was suddenly starting to feel awfully heavy. She wiggled her way out of her boots and the jumpsuit and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. She pretty much never wore underwire bras, but this lacey one was still making her feel constricted and she peeled that off too. That was better. But now she was cold. She heard the shower turn on and smiled, opening the bottom drawer of her dresser and plopping down on the floor. Hm. Decisions, decisions. She reached for her nightgown but had trouble coaxing her hands to move, they felt oddly separate from her body. Weird!

She finally managed to pull out the small white gown and slipped it on over her head, making herself slightly dizzy. She stood, slightly unsteady, and shivered as the ocean air hit her arms. Hm. She spotted the cardigan that was still lying on the bed and slipped it on. There. Perfect. She collapsed onto the bed and sighed. She felt so tired now. Her brain felt fuzzy and sparkly. 

A small tune was floating through the air and she frowned, puzzled. She sat up and listened. There, barely audible through the door of the bathroom, a small melody floated through, mixing with the sound of running water. Oh, how _wonderful!_ Deacon was humming! Probably thought she couldn't hear, dummy. Suddenly a warmness settled over her and she felt restless. She had so many things to tell him! Why was she sitting here?

She padded over to the bathroom door, slightly wobbly, and giggled. What a silly man.

~

Deacon stood under the hot water and sighed. He tried to let his mind wander away, reduce itself to a quiet buzz, but it didn’t. Never did.

No matter how far his mind went, it always came back to her.

Shit. It was obsessive at this point. Every time he thought he had a handle on her, she shifted. Just a little. The fierce look in her eyes as she spat insults at Kellogg...Her immediate plan to assess the Brotherhood and put the Minutemen in the ring for the fight against the institute...The way she looked at him, a wicked gleam in her eye and told him-

_“Oh, relax, pretty boy. I’ll swallow if you want me to.”_

He hadn’t believed it. Barely registered her innocent angel face even being able to say something like that.

And the _way_ she said it too. Petulant and bratty. Feeding the small monster in his brain, until all he wanted to do was throw her over his knee and spank her. Naughty, _naughty_ girl.

Oh, fuck. Nope. He was absolutely not going to jack it in her shower, while she sat, dreamy and without boundaries or inhibitions, barely ten feet away. No way. Too risky. And weird, right? Too weird, even for him. He willed his dick to calm the fuck down, as he scrubbed wasteland garbage off his skin. Oh, perfect. Two hundred year old garbage. Perfect boner killer.

As if he would ever forgive himself if he had dared to make a move while she was drugged up like that. As if he would ever forgive himself for making a move, period. She was so innocent, angelic and bright like the sun. It was making it nearly impossible to manipulate her when he knew the implicit way that she trusted him. _Nearly_ impossible. He wanted her to trust him, obviously, but trying to con that sweet face for realzies was becoming difficult. For the most part. 

That was the part that was scaring him. Every time she asked him something, every time he looked into her big, round eyes, he wanted her to have everything. All of him. For fucks sake, she was the first person to actually look into his eyes in...what, fifteen...sixteen years? And how did he let that happen? Because she said please. Twice. Fuck. Everything he threw at her, she threw right back. She made him relax, even if it was only slightly, and that was fucking terrifying. He wanted so badly to trust her. Trust her with everything. And that was dangerous. And scary. And a bad idea.

He started humming that song he had caught her singing that day. He couldn’t remember the words, but he could hear her voice singing it. Wasn’t that funny...

He knew what all this meant of course. He knew, even if he didn’t want to admit it, and he felt his resolve harden even as his fear grew. He was going to take care of her. Forever. Even if he knew he wasn’t good enough for her. Even if he knew he was a monster, no matter what he tried to do, or who he tried to be. He could do this. He could keep her safe.

After all, who would dare harm a princess when a dragon was guarding the tower?

“Deacon?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. He stood still under the water, wondering if he’d just imagined it.

“Deacon?” 

Guess not.

“Rosie?” How did she always seem to know when he was thinking about her?

“That’s me!” He heard her laugh. Oh, yeah, real funny.

He carefully pulled back the curtain and chanced a peak out into the bathroom. There she was, sitting on the floor, staring up at him. Gleeful and innocent as ever, even though the sinfully tiny nightgown she had on was slightly see-through.

“Rosie, what- What the fuck are you doing?” He couldn’t help but laugh. It would be really funny, if he wasn’t completely naked and not still trying to pry his mind from the thought of spanking her silly.

“I have things to tell you!” She fiddled with a button on her sweater as she looked at him, her eyes totally glossed over. “And I wanted to see your Sinatra eyes.”

He hid back behind the shower curtain and laughed. “You’re tripping balls, dollface.”

She snorted with laughter, “Shut up! I got things to say!”

Oh boy. The water was starting to cool, but he didn’t dare shut it off. No escaping the bathtub now.

“What, you like a captive audience or something?”

There was a small pause, and for a moment he thought she’d left, but then she blurted out, “I think you’re great!”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah?”

Another small pause. “Oh! I was nodding my head.”

Christ. He was halving the dose next time.

“Anyway,” she babbled on, “I like you. RJ thinks I’m being stupid, but fuck him. I can do what I want.”

Yeah. Fuck stupid RJ.

“You make me feel- I just...You always…” She sighed and his body tensed. Oh no. Not this.

“You...You help.” She paused for a moment, and her voice turned small and sweet. “You help me.”

There was a moment of silence. He still felt nervous and twitchy, even as pride bloomed inside him.

_Relax, idiot. This is what you want._

It was. It absolutely was. But that didn’t mean the intimacy of it all didn’t scare him shitless.

He ducked his head out of the shower curtain and glanced over at her on the bathroom floor. She looked small and slightly worried. That wouldn't do. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Her face bloomed into a smile. “See? Like that. You always know what to say.”

He gave a dry laugh. No. Not always. Her eyelids drooped and her head settled against the wall. Oh, no, no, no. No napping here.

“Hey, this is a no napping zone. Go to bed, Rosie.”

“I am.”

He laughed. “I’ve gotta get out of the shower sometime!”

“No one’s stopping you.”

Oh, naughty girl. If he had felt like being a little meaner, he would’ve just stepped out anyway. Not with her, though. Or at least, not yet.

“Nice try, babydoll. Get to steppin’. You're not getting an eyeful tonight.”

She grumbled, but unsteadily got to her feet and slipped out the door, closing it after she threw him one last wicked smile.

He shook his head. 

He had it bad.

When he finally got himself dressed and his ever-comforting sunglasses back on his face, not a sound was coming from the bedroom. He assumed she was asleep. He was wrong, of course. One should never assume.

He stepped out to find Rosie sitting on the small rug in front of her bed, the floor around her littered with chopped off ringlets and scissors in her hand. There was a small mirror propped against the bed frame, and she looked up at him with a sheepish grin. Caught.

“So, call me crazy, but that doesn’t look like sleeping to me.”

She giggled, delirious but filled with wicked mirth. “I know! I know, but- Well I’d always wanted to do it, but I was always too scared! And then there were scissors, and guess what? I wasn’t scared at all! And then I did it.” She laughed and snipped off another small lock of hair, then dropped the scissors. “See? Done!” She suddenly turned laughably shy and stared at the floor. “Do you like it?”

What a dangerous and wonderful question. She had chopped her once shoulder length curls to her chin, and they had poofed out considerably, framing her face like a curly halo. A few shorter curls formed something resembling bangs across her forehead, and the short cut exposed her long, elegant neck. Honestly? Beautiful. Angelic. He kept those thoughts to himself.

He moved towards her until she had to look straight up to see his face, smiling the closer he got. He looked down, shaking his head at the silly girl and the ringlets she had chopped off on the floor. He chuckled. “I love it.” He swiftly hoisted her over his shoulder, earning a squeal of protest, and roughly tossed her onto the mattress. For a moment he thought he’d hurt her, but she just giggled and rolled onto her back.

He grabbed the afghan from the armchair by the window and threw it at her head. “Now go to sleep.” He shook his head as he took his spot on the other side of the bed. “What’s with you tonight, huh? Chopping your hair off, trying to sneak a peak of me in the shower-”

She had her face buried in her pillow, and her voice came out entirely muffled. “Oh, whatever. You liked it.”

“Irrelevant.” She didn’t even deny it. Huh.

She didn’t respond, and he watched as her breathing evened out. Finally asleep. Good. He leaned over and kissed her hair, earning a small, unintelligible noise in return.

"Sweet dreams, baby."


	13. The Red Baron.

When Rosie finally woke, she felt groggy. She felt the cool sea air blow in and turned to face it, as memories floated in from the night before. There was a warm body next to her and she snuggled against it, opening her eyes to see she was cradled against Deacon. He had his back against the headboard, and his neck at an odd angle. Hm. She was pretty sure this was the first time she’d ever seen him actually sleep.

She smiled and tucked a few loose curls behind her ear before she realized-

Where the fuck was all her hair?!

She bolted upright with a loud gasp, and Deacon reacted with a start, scrambling into an upright position.

“Oh! I’m sorry, sugar.” 

She paused, taking a moment to study his extreme reaction. His body was completely tense, one hand out and the other hand, she finally noticed, wielding a small switchblade. He was panting. Hm. Didn’t that remind her of someone. Her mind made the association before she could stop it-

_Nate._

She pressed a hand to his forearm. “Hey. Just me, honeybee. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He finally seemed to fully wake up, and cracked a small forced smile.

“Well, damn. You get all the boys this shook up in the morning, Blondie?”

She laughed as he stashed the knife back in his jeans. He slept fully clothed, too.

“I try my best.” She remembered her concerning lack of hair and dashed off to the bathroom mirror, gazing sadly at her new short bob.

“Isn’t that weird? How you could always want to do something and yet, still regret it when you do it?”

“Don’t know what there is to regret, I think it’s cute.”

Oh, yes. She remembered. He had told her he loved it. She felt heat crawling up her cheeks and looked down at her feet, suddenly bashful. Then her eyes glazed over the soft nightgown she was wearing and she yelped as she realized it was more than a little see through. Holy shit. What had she been thinking?

She wrapped the cardigan around herself as she heard Deacon’s soft chuckle in the other room.

“What are you laughing at?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.” She smirked. “Tryna get an eyeful, huh?”

He gave her a devilish smile and she felt herself swallow. “Me? Who was it that decided to pay me a visit in the shower last night, hm?”

She felt herself turn an even deeper red. Even her ears burned. 

“I- I most certainly-” She huffed, “I was only on the floor! It’s not like I- Oh Jesus Christmas!” 

She slammed the bathroom door as Deacon laughed in the other room. Dickhead. She was high out of her mind! It’s not like she had _wanted_ to-

Okay, yeah. Maybe she _was_ thinking about all the muscle he must be hiding under those stupid t-shirts. But that was irrelevant!

She realized she was basically just stuck in her own bathroom now and flung open the door.

“And she returns.”

She huffed. “I can do whatever I want. It’s my house.” She pulled her General’s coat off the coat rack and threw it on the bed. “Besides, I can ignore you just as well out here.”

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed, Blondie. You wouldn’t be the first damsel to fall for my masculine wiles.”

She pulled out her floral patterned dress with the long sleeves. She always liked this one with the big colonial General’s coat.

“Ignoring you. I’m ignoring you.”

“Just keep the peeping to a minimum, okay? I’m a pretty private guy.”

She ducked under the bed as the heat in her face grew, fishing around for the cardboard box that contained her leather boots. “I don’t even know who you’re talking to. Can’t even hear you.” 

“I mean, if you wanted an eyeful you could’ve just asked-”

“Deacon!” He laughed as she chucked a pillow at his head. “Here I was thinking you were a gentleman!”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Mistake number one, sweetheart.”

She huffed and went to the bathroom to change. Now she was irritated. How did he seem to just know everything? She couldn’t be that transparent.

She finally shed her nightgown and slipped on her dress. No. Of course she wasn’t. He was just being an ass. Trying to fluster her, turn her into a stuttering, girly idiot. And he had succeeded.

She shrugged on her coat and opened the door, to see Deacon sitting on the edge of the bed facing the door, grinning at her in a boyish sort of way. Damn him.

“Oh, Artie’s gonna love that.”

She frowned. “Who?”

“The great Elder Maxson. The Brotherhood’s fearless, tyrannical, megalomaniacal leader.”

She sat down next to him and started to pull on her boots. “Ooh, somebodies using big boy words.”

He chuckled. “They all ring true, princess. When Lyons’ was Elder, the Brotherhood wasn’t so bad, but when baby Artie took over?” He whistled low, “The whole game changed. Guess that’s what happens when you put a child in a position of power.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A child? How old is he?”

“Twenty. Youngest in the history of the Brotherhood, if I’m not mistaken.” He smirked, “Which I never am.”

“He’s twenty years old?! I thought you said they went all the way back to the Capital Wasteland?”

“They do. Extend all over the East Coast.”

“So an eager young boy wants to prove himself-”

“Exactamundo.”

“So he institutes a bunch of new policies-”

“Death to synths, big showy entrance into Boston, etcetera.”

“-And then tries to start a war with an unknown entity to finally cement his power.”

“You got it on the nose, babycakes.”

“Huh. That could be a problem.”

“Why’s that?” She knew he wasn’t actually asking. He already knew why. This was a test. She wished she found it infuriating instead of endearing.

“Because that makes it personal for him, whether he realizes it or not. That means coaxing him completely out of involving the Brotherhood is highly unlikely.”

“So, reason with him.”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. He’s doing this for emotional, personal purposes. He’s being irrational, and irrational people don’t respond to reason-” Her face crept into a small smile. “They respond to fear.”

He beamed with pride. “Atta girl.”

She wiggled excitedly as she laced up her boots. “I’m gonna break out my General voice.”

“Ooh, the General voice. That’ll have him quivering in his skivvies.”

She frowned thoughtfully. Hm. A megalomaniac huh?

“I’m gonna push him into a pissing contest with the Minutemen.” She smiled, feeling slightly proud of herself. “Distract him so the Railroad can work under the radar and we can make the move against the institute instead of some foreign superpower that doesn’t give a shit about what happens to Boston.”

Deacon threw his hands in the air. “A mastermind!”

She gave him a wry smile. “Sure. I bet you had that all planned out before I even fell asleep last night, didn’t you?”

He grinned. “Not relevant.”

~

Rosie was surprised to find that the police station, once only inhabited by Paladin Danse, Knight Rhys, and Scribe Haylen, was now buzzing with activity. Men and women alike in orange jumpsuits and scribe fatigues scrambled around the compound, lugging boxes of equipment and cataloging supplies. Deacon let out a low whistle.

“Pretty hoppin’ locale, huh?”

Deacon was in full minutemen digs, dark blue flannel, army pants and a brown leather jacket, all tied together with a militia hat and leather satchel. He honestly looked handsome as a minuteman, but she didn’t dare tell him that.

She nodded. “They definitely got the support they asked for.”

Paladin Danse was just inside the police station, barking orders at a small group of initiates. He smiled when he saw her come in.

“Dismissed. Don’t come back until it’s done.”

The initiates scattered and Danse moved towards her. He was out of his power armor, and dressed in just the orange jumpsuit, she was forced to notice what a large man he actually was. He was a bit shorter than Deacon, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Rosie laughed. He reminded her of Super Man.

“Rosie! Welcome back. I assumed you saw the Prydwen fly in?”

“Hard to miss, paladin. Your people made quite the entrance.”

He grinned. “I suppose they did.” His face fell slightly when his eyes fell on Deacon. “And who is this?”

She went to speak, but was cut off by Deacon as he spoke in a ridiculously thick Boston accent.

“I’m the General’s personal secretary, sir! Just taggin’ along, gazing in awe at the Brotherhood, mister paladin, sir.”

Rosie caught the sneer on the word ‘Paladin,’ but it didn’t seem like Danse did.

Rosie spoke quickly, “Right, uhm...I was hoping I could speak with Elder Maxson. Welcome him as the leader of the Minutemen and all.”

“That definitely can be arranged. I would love to give you a personal tour of the ship, as well. She’s a beautiful thing.”

Rosie grinned. “Lead the way.”

The flight deck of the Prydwen was freezing. She held her coat closed with one hand while the other held her red beret to the top of her head. Still, the wind seemed to blow right through her.

She shouted over the wind, "What happens if you fall?"

Danse turned his head back to her and smiled. "Don't."

Danse led them across the flight deck and into the ship. A young man was standing with his back facing a wall full of windows that looked out over the Boston skyline, a group of soldiers standing at attention in front of him as he spoke.

"...The Institute Scientists have created a weapon that transcends the destructive nature of the atom bomb. They call their creation the "synth", a robotic abomination of technology that is free-thinking and masquerades as a human being. This notion that a machine can be granted free will is not only offensive, but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn’t harnessed properly, it has the potential of rendering us extinct as a species. I am not prepared to allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. Therefore, the Institute and their "synths" are considered enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel, and should be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. This campaign will be costly and many lives will be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy... itself. Ad Victoriam!"

Rosie had a bitter taste in her mouth as the soldiers saluted and shouted “Ad Victoriam,” in response. This...boy was trying to start a war. A bloodbath. He was fully prepared to lose as many lives as he deemed necessary to wipe out the institute and their synths. And how, exactly did he plan to root out these abominations that looked, thought, and acted just as human as anybody else? In her experience, that led to mass slaughter. The killing of innocent people just because they might be the enemy.

Danse had rushed off, saying something about reports and recon squads and whatever. She didn’t care. She felt rage growing in the pit of her stomach, thoroughly directed at the boy who had a beard pitifully covering his stupid baby face.

Deacon softly squeezed her arm and she started, shaking herself from her thoughts. Right. She could be angry later. She had a job to do.

She marched up through the dispersing soldiers and held out a hand. “Elder Maxson. Pleasure to meet you. My name is General Rosie Castevet, and I’m the leader of the Minutemen.”

He gave her a small smile as he shook her hand. “Ah, Castevet. You’re the one Paladin Danse spoke of.”

“That’s me!”

He gestured to Deacon. “And this one?”

Deacon went into a deep bow. “The General’s secretary, Elder Maxson your greatness sir.”

Rosie almost laughed. Silly man. None of these Brotherhood guys seemed to pay any mind, though.

Deacon had said they were arrogant, but damn.

“Right. Well, Miss Castavet-”

Her anger flared. “General, please.”

He paused for a moment. “Yes...General Castevet. We have heard of your little organization. We hope you won’t cause any difficulty.”

She felt her ears start to burn and fought to keep herself under control. “I would hardly call us little, Elder Maxson. I’m actually here to tell you the same thing.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I came here to tell you, on behalf of the Minutemen, that we hope you won’t cause any difficulty, sir.”

She could’ve sworn she saw smoke come out of his ears. 

“Well, Miss Castevet-”

“General Castevet.”

“I hardly think your band of farmers and scavvers could hope to match the Brotherhood in power. Even-”

She released control on her temper, finally deciding this was the appropriate moment.“My band of farmers and scavvers have plenty of firepower thank you! You could look out that window of yours and see Fort Independence, fully armed with heavy artillery and full of my soldiers. Not to mention, we have the full support of the Commonwealth and its people. You-” She pointed a finger at his chest. “However, speak of war and lost lives as if you have a right to put my citizens in the middle of your firefight. You hope to win against an enemy that you know nothing about.”

“We know plenty about-”

“Oh, plenty? Do you? The people of the Commonwealth have been fighting against the Institute for more than fifty years, and you plan to parade your airship through the sky and simply take them down? At what cost, Elder Maxson?”

“At whatever cost necessary.” He lifted his chin and she scoffed. Pathetic posturing.

“That’s the problem. You don’t care about what happens to the people of the Commonwealth. How could you? You’re not among them.”

“I care about these people! Why else would I be here? Fighting their greatest threat?”

“And what happens when you vanquish the great beast, hm? Let me guess, the Brotherhood gains control of Boston.”

He paused. “That is the ultimate goal, yes.”

Huh. Figures.

“I can’t allow that Maxson. The Minutemen won’t allow that.”

“I don’t think the Minutemen are in a state to _allow_ the Brotherhood-”

“Under Brotherhood control the Commonwealth will never regain independent government. You would have us bow to a foreign power rather than govern ourselves-”

“The Commonwealth thus far has not had any sort of independent government-”

“An attempt has been made, Maxson, but was terminated by the Institute. The CPG Massacre. Heard of it?”

“I am familiar.”

“Obviously the Commonwealth cannot flourish while the Institute exists. The Minutemen can exterminate that threat, and also leave the people free and independent.”

“You think your Minutemen can vanquish the Institute and then continue to protect Boston?”

She lifted her chin, trying to make up for the considerable height difference. Assholes were always tall.

“I do.”

He chuckled, and it made her want to punch his stupid, twenty year old face.

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree. However, I want no ill will with the Minutemen, and am therefore granting you membership into the Brotherhood. I am bestowing you the rank of knight.”

Oh, motherfucker.

“You’re...You’re what?”

“With Paladin Danse’s sponsorship and you’re standing as the leader of the Minutemen, you are a valuable and useful candidate.”

“Elder Maxson I don’t believe that’s necessary-”

“You’ll have access to your own personal set of power armor, as well as access to the rest of the ship. Welcome to the Brotherhood, Knight.”

He had thrown her for a loop. Now she felt scattered and confused.

_Relax, Rosie. Just do what you came here to do._

She took a breath and continued. “A non-aggression agreement will be delivered to you in due time, Elder Maxson. I believe that is the best course of action for the relationship between our two factions. Good day, Elder.”

He smirked, and it enraged her to know that he noticed how he had thrown her.

“Good day, knight.”

She marched off, and Deacon bowed once more and took his place directly behind her. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Day’s not over, boss. I think it’s time you take Danse up on that tour.”

Oh, right. Deacon still had his part to do. She sighed.

“Okay, but make it quick.”

After a thorough tour of the ship, Rosie grumpily admitted to herself that it was impressive. They had an entire army housed in this blimp, and then some. Deacon had snuck off to get access to the Brotherhood’s files, and so she was left alone with Danse. He spoke on and on about the glory of the Brotherhood and the wonders of the Prydwen, and it honestly left her confused. How could someone who seemed as morally upstanding as Danse possibly feel comfortable following someone as convoluted as Maxson?

When they finally made it back down to the airport, Rosie was exhausted.

“I just don’t understand it.”

“Understand what, Blondie?”

She looked up at Deacon as they made their way through the police station. He was still smiling goofily, despite the fact that he was totally spooked both times he was on the vertibird. Oh, he could school his face all he wanted, but she had watched as he gripped his seat so hard his knuckles turned white. “Not afraid of heights” her ass.

“Danse is just so- He just doesn’t seem to fit. A few of them don’t actually.”

He nodded. “Danse seems like a stand-up guy. A lot of these Brotherhood guys though…” He whistled.

“Maxson’s poisoned it. Their goal is noble, but the methods-”

“ROSIE!”

She was cut off as Scribe Haylen scrambled towards her and wrapped her in a bear hug. “They just told me you were here! I missed you!”

Rosie laughed. “I’ve been busy!”

Haylen shoved her shoulder as she stepped back. “No kidding. We keep hearing about all the new Minutemen settlements.” She paused when she finally noticed Deacon. Huh. People kept doing that.

“Oh, sorry! I’m Elizabeth Haylen, Scribe.” She stuck out a hand and he shook it.

“Jack Duffy. General’s personal secretary.”

Haylen raised her eyebrows. “Ooh, personal secretary. How impressive.” She turned her attention back to Rosie. “Speaking of, you have to let me see the Castle one of these days. I hear it’s quite impressive.”

Rosie laughed. “If you can wait long enough, I’ll take you out to Spectacle Island and you can see the lab. It’s almost finished!”

She smiled. “It’s a date! Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s a total madhouse here. Nice meeting you Jack!”

Haylen dashed off and Rosie smiled.

Deacon piped up behind her. “Another one that doesn’t quite fit?” 

“Indeed.”

When they had finally made it out of earshot of the police station, Deacon spoke.

“So, what’s your read?”

She groaned. “You were absolutely right. Arrogant megalomaniac.” She paused. “It actually makes me sad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How, so?”

“It’s just- I mean no wonder he’s such an extremist. He’s just a kid, you know? He’s desperately trying to prove that he can handle the position, that he’s leading everyone in the right direction.” She shook her head. “I feel bad for him. Even if he is an ass.”

She looked around and frowned. “Hey, D. We’re going in the wrong direction.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah, we’re going to Diamond city. We need to talk to Nick.”

He looked at her, looking slightly concerned. “You sure you want to do that today?”

She nodded. “The Brotherhood’s out of the way, sort of. Now we have to figure out how to get inside the belly of the beast.” He went to speak, but she cut him off. "I can't put it off any longer. It's eating me alive."

She heard him take a breath.

“Lead the way, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. I kind of hate it, but I don't know how to fix it? I dunno. Feel like it's necessary, but not super smooth.


	14. Shoot Low, They're Riding Shetlands.

Deacon stood in the basement of the Memory Den, next to Doctor Amari as she gaped. Rosie and Nick stood, looking slightly sheepish, as Amari fussed.

“Are you two mad? Besides the fact that you’re asking me to defile a corpse, you do realize that the memory simulators require intact, living brains to function?”

Rosie sighed, “Please, Doctor Amari, Nick told me you’re the only one who could possibly make this work. I’m begging you, can we at least try?”

Deacon frowned. She looked sad. Tired. The minute she had seen Valentine she collapsed into tears all over again, and it took five minutes of her crying all over the detective’s shoulder after he had fussed about her injury until she calmed down. Plus, he knew she had hated being up on the Prydwen. For fuck’s sake, between the vertibird rides and the flight deck, neither had he. But the way she talked about Maxson, saying she felt bad for him, sad even, had him worried. He knew her mushy gushy emotions could be a weak point, but what if that stopped her from making the tactical decision? 

And, even worse, she was _friends_ with some of those people. Blegh. He shuddered at the thought. Friends with soldiers who would probably shoot him on sight if they knew who he was. Even Paladin “Choir Boy” Danse was all mooney eyed over her. Shit. He had wanted to clock his stupid, perfectly square jaw when he put a hand on her back to guide her into the command deck. 

Because he was Brotherhood. That was all. Only reason. Duh.

Nick finally spoke from his place at Rosie’s side, “This brain had inside knowledge of the Institute, Amari. The biggest scientific secret of the Commonwealth. You need this, and so do we.” He chuckled. “All three of us, really.”

She sighed. “Fine then. I’ll take a look. But no guarantees!” She wrung her hands. “Do you- Do you have it with you?”

Deacon laughed. “Could you say that like Frankenstein? 'Igor, bring me the brain!'”

Amari sighed, “Someone competent, please?”

Rosie took of her beret and ran a hand through her hair. “Uh- How much of the brain do you need...exactly?”

Deacon chuckled as Nick fished in a small first aid case. He retrieved a small piece of tissue and handed it over, “Here’s...uh...what we’ve got.”

Amari held up the small, fleshy object in her hand. “This isn’t a brain...It’s...The hippocampus! And this thing attached to it...A neural interface?”

Nick growled. “Those circuits look awfully familiar.”

“Not surprising. From what I’ve seen, all Institute technology has a similar architecture.” She frowned thoughtfully, “Mr. Valentine is an older generation synth, institute technology being what it is...The brain could be compatible.”

Rosie shook her head. “I don’t like how that sounds.”

Amari sighed. “It’s an incredible risk to take. We’re talking about wiring something to your brain, Nick.”

Valentine held up a hand. “Don’t worry about me, Amari. I’m well past the warranty date, anyway.”

Rosie grabbed his arm, and Deacon could already hear her starting to tear up. “Nick, I can’t let you-”

He placed a mechanical hand over hers and frowned. “You can’t stop me, either. We’ve got a missing kid on the line here, sweetheart.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “That’s worth the risk.”

She smiled tearfully. “You’re a real stand-up guy, Valentine.”

Amari spoke up. “Take a seat over here, Mr. Valentine.”

Nick made his way over and sat. “I start cackling like an old, grizzled mercenary, you pull me out okay?”

Amari opened a small panel in the back of the detective’s head with a screwdriver, and started fiddling with assorted circuits.

“I need you to keep talking to me, Valentine. Any slight change in your cognitive function could be dangerous. Are you feeling any different?”

Nick’s face was screwed up, as if he was in pain. 

“It’s a lot of flashes...static...I can’t make sense of any of it Doc.”

Amari sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. The mnemonic impressions are encoded. The Institute has one last fail safe.”

Rosie wrung her hands, tearful and distraught. “Is Nick okay?”

Deacon smiled sadly. Empathy was a bitch.

“Yes, the connection appears to be stable.” Amari frowned thoughtfully. “Hm. The encryption is too strong for one brain, but...what if we used two?”

Rosie sniffled. “You mean me, right?”

“Yes, we load both you and Mr. Valentine into the memory loungers, run your cognitive functions in parallel-”

She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway. Let’s just get started.”

Deacon fought the urge to protest as she settled into a memory lounger. He knew this was necessary, but he just had this overwhelming instinct to get her away from the big, bad, scary thing.

“Initiating brainwave migration between the transplant and the host.” Amari fiddled with her terminal, “Mnemonic activity coming from the transplant! It’s degenerated, but it’s there! I’m going to load you into the strongest memories I can find…It may not be completely...stable. So hold on.”

A bright flash of white light emitted from Amari’s terminal screen, and Deacon watched as Rosie suddenly slipped out of consciousness. He watched fretfully over Amari’s shoulder as images floated across the screen like a movie. Kellogg as a little boy, wielding a pistol that was unsettlingly big in his small hands. Kellogg in a small house in San Francisco, a mousy brunette and a baby joining him. Kellogg taking revenge on the men that killed his wife and baby. Deacon scoffed. Fucking hypocrite.

Kellogg in a sleazy bar...Kellogg being recruited by the institute...Shit. Skip to the good part, huh pal?

Then, suddenly, the image of Vault 111 appeared on the terminal. Deacon felt his stomach drop to the bottom of his feet.

_“Pod, C6. Down at the end.”_

Oh, fuck. He glanced back at Rosie, who was now blanch white in the memory lounger.

“Hey, Doc. Could you move this one along? Don’t think this is something we really need to see.”

Doctor Amari shook her head. “This is the next intact memory in the temporal sequence.” She looked up at him, concerned. “She’s stuck there.”

He chanced another look back at Rosie. She was sweating now, gripping the armrests of the lounger with white knuckles. The sound of commotion came over the terminal speakers, and he turned back in time to see a man, the man he saw frozen and bloody across from her in that vault, desperately holding on to a baby. Her baby.

The man, Nathaniel, Deacon remembered, shouted at the figures in clean suits, as he desperately held the screaming child to his chest.

_“I’m not giving you Shaun!”_

A bang rang out that made both Deacon and Amari jump, as Kellogg coldly and efficiently took his shot, and the man went limp, slouching back into his pod while blood gushed from the wound in his head. One of the figures in the Institute cleansuits cradled the baby, the tiny bundle of blankets now stained with his father’s blood.

Deacon felt sick. Good god. He had seen the aftermath, but now...It was so much worse.

Amari spoke through a small microphone connected to her terminal. “I...I’m sorry you had to go through that again. But it seems we’re getting closer.”

It made him incomprehensibly angry that they were continuing, but it was necessary. It would be so fucking wrong to make her go through all of that and not even get the information they were here for.

Still, he felt the injustice of it all fan the flame in his stomach as he stared at her, quivering in the memory lounger. How unfair. This was the second time a wall of glass had prevented him from drying her tears.

“Deacon! I think we’ve got something!”

Kellogg was sat on a desk chair inside a Diamond city abode, cleaning a pistol. A small boy sat on the floor, maybe nine...ten years old? He had a mop of dark brown curls, and large blue eyes. Rosie’s eyes, Deacon realized. Oh, man. This was the kid. Had to be.

Kellogg had said he wasn’t a baby anymore.

He watched as a courser entered the house, the kid apparently undisturbed by a killing machine walking right past him. Two killing machines, in fact. The courser handed Kellogg a file, and they talked of some rogue Institute scientist holed up in the glowing sea. Hm. Deacon felt a light bulb go off above his head.

Then, just as suddenly as he came, the courser took the child by the hand, and vanished in a ball of light. Kellogg was left limply holding a file on his newest target, with a face that almost made Deacon think the bastard had feelings. 

He could have leapt for joy. _Teleportation!_ This was huge. No, shit, not even huge, it was _game changing._

And it was all thanks to her.

Amari looked like she was a few seconds shy of a heart attack.

“Teleportation! Of course!” She scrambled as she released the gauge on Nick’s memory lounger with a hiss. “Oh, Mr. Valentine, it all makes sense!” Nick winced as she helped him into an upright position and removed the implant from his skull. “No one’s found the entrance to the Institute because it doesn’t exist!”

Nick grumbled. “You know Doc, I’d love to chew the fat, but I have one hell of a headache.”

“Oh! Of course." Amari finally closed the small panel in the back of his skull and screwed it shut. "You can wait upstairs while I pull Miss Castevet out.”

The detective tipped his hat over his eyes and departed, swaying and stumblling slightly as he walked. Amari spoke to Deacon as she engaged the release on Rosie’s lounger.

“Now, I’m going to administer a large stimpak as she comes out of it, but…” She sucked in a breath. “I’m not exactly sure what the side effects will be. I just know that it won’t be...comfortable.”

Deacon braced himself as the glass dome hissed open. Doctor Amari injected the stimpak near the base of Rosie’s neck, and only then did she start to stir. Her eyes peeled open and squinted against the light, and then she suddenly shot upright, making a mad attempt to scramble out of the chair. As she pushed herself forward, she stumbled on weak knees and Deacon caught her before she hit the floor.

“Oh, god!” She sobbed into his shoulder, “He’s- He’s a little boy! I missed- He has to be-” 

Her blubbering was halted by the sobs that racked her body, and Deacon grimaced, nodding his head to Doc Amari. She took the signal and crept out of the room, as he tried desperately to quiet Rosie down. He sighed. Shit.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry sweetheart.” He slowly pet her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple, temporarily allowing himself to be as affectionate as he wanted, even if it did set off a chain reaction of panic in his brain. “We’re gonna get him back, okay? We’re so close, Rosie.”

She choked, “But every time I get close he- He gets farther away!”

He grabbed her face in two hands and forced her to look at him. Oh, fuck. Immediate mistake. Her face was an angry red and tear streaked, and her eyes were completely bloodshot. Even her nose glowed a bright crimson as she wiped it on her sleeve, and Deacon felt all the sense leave his brain as his thoughts centered on doing whatever it took to get her to stop crying.

He pushed his glasses down further on his nose and looked at her. She immediately quieted at the sight of his eyes, and he gave her a small smile.

“I said we’re gonna get him back, okay? I know my word isn’t worth shit, but you have it, alright? We’re gonna make those Institute bastards pay.” He scoffed, playing at goofy nonchalance even as his brain screamed at him that this was too much, too close, “Besides, you and me, together? The Institute doesn’t stand a chance.”

She laughed tearfully, and he felt his chest tighten, his fingers tingling with electricity as he pushed the hair out of her face. 

“How do we feel?”

“Okay. Rattled.” She sniffed. “My head hurts.”

He chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “Deacon?”

“Hm?”

“I’d really like to go and get properly sloshed right about now.”

He laughed in surprise. “I thought you were a lady, huh? Do proper young ladies go out drinking with their undesirable friends?”

She smiled. “I dunno, but this one does.”

There was a small knock, and Deacon pushed his glasses back up. He turned to see Amari and Nick standing in the doorway.

Nick coughed. “Not interrupting, are we?”

Deacon stood and held out a hand for Rosie. “How dare you sir?! I am a proper gentleman.”

He heard Rosie giggle as she took his hand and stood, and he felt a swell of stupid, manly pride, even as Nick rolled his eyes.

“Right.” He adjusted his hat, and looked at Rosie, “Well, doll. I think it’s time we talk game plan.”

She nodded. “I think so too.” She started pacing, “Starting with the target Kellogg didn’t live long enough to eliminate.”

Amari piped up, “The rogue scientist?”

Rosie nodded. “Virgil. Hiding out somewhere in the...Glowing Sea?” She frowned. “Where’s that?”

Nick sighed and tugged at his tye, “Down south. Legend has it, that was ground zero for the bomb aimed for Boston. Real nasty place.”

“Highly irradiated then?”

Nick gave a cynical chuckle. “You can say that again. It glows for a reason. You’d need serious protection going into a place like that.”

Rosie nodded, still pacing the room. “So he’s using the radiation as a shield. Hiding somewhere even the Institute would think twice about following him.” She smirked, “Smart.”

Deacon laughed. “Smart, sure, but at what cost? There’s no way a soft Institute egghead is surviving down there in all those rads.” 

Amari wrung her hands. “He was alive very recently. The memory in which he’s mentioned is a recent one.” 

Rosie finally stopped her pacing. “So that settles it. I have to go into the Glowing Sea and find Virgil. That’s how we figure out how to get inside the Institute.”

Nick whistled. “The Glowing Sea, Rosie...Don’t underestimate it. Even for you it might be-”

“It really doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, “It’s what needs to be done. Besides...” She shrugged, “I always thought I could rock a hazmat suit, anyway.”

After Nick denied her invitation to get, “properly sloshed,” she tugged Deacon all the way over to the Third Rail. The place was rowdy, as Magnolia crooned out a swing tune with her band. All the commotion made him feel slightly unnerved. Twitchy.

“Uh, hey boss? You’ve had a hell of a day, are you sure you-”

She didn’t even look back as she trotted down the stairs. “Very sure, thank you, honey. This is perfect, actually. If I tried to just sleep it off, I’d just-” She sighed and looked up at him, “Well, you know.”

Ah. Nightmares. Right. He sighed and resigned himself to a night of dodging conversation and pretending to drink in shady corners as Rosie weaved her way to the bar.

“Hey, Charlie, you old dog!”

Her attempt at intense friendliness didn’t seem to affect the robot, as he merely muttered in response, “Rosie. What’ll it be?”

“A jack and cola for me and…” She glanced at Deacon and he shook his head.

“That’s all!”

Charlie grunted in response, and Rosie hooked an arm in his and tugged him toward a couch in the corner. 

“Don’t drink, huh?”

He wanted to say _No, baby. I drink in excess to the point of loss of consciousness, which doesn’t seem super duper smart with my present company._ But he just laughed and said-

“Not exactly.”

Rosie squeezed his arm and pointed, “Look! There’s Hancock!”

He chuckled to himself. She really was in the mood to drown her sorrows, then. The Mayor, however didn’t seem all too lively, as he sat on a couch, gloomily drinking from a bottle of suspiciously unlabeled liquor and swatting away the women floating by to get a piece of their usually extremely available mayor. Shit, had he been neutered or something?

Rosie kept her same bubbly attitude despite the Mayor’s brooding however as she bounced into the seat across from him.

“Howdy, Mister Mayor!” 

He slurred in response, “Sunshiiine! Hey, hot mama, what’s a nice girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Holy shit. The night was young, Hancock, jeez.

Rosie tilted her head, “What’s got you moping in this corner?”

“What else destroys a man?” He hiccupped. “A woman.”

Deacon chuckled. “Aw, Hancock. Some pretty young thing finally got you whipped, huh?”

The ghoul smiled. “Well you’d know nothin’ about it, would you, Deacon? You sexless bastard.”

He laughed and settled back in his seat, “So who is this mystery woman?”

Hancock gestured vaguely towards the other side of the bar, but it didn’t take a goddamn genius to see who he was so enamored with.

A small gaggle of men were circled in the corner of the lounge. There, in the center of them, perched on a fainting couch like a glamour madonna, was a curvy strawberry blonde, glowing under the colored lights. A young, lively thing, she wore a silver sequined gown that was practically painted on, with a ruffle-lined slit that went all the way up to the top of her thigh. She had a fever blossom tucked behind her right ear, and was elegantly holding a martini as she giggled and squeaked out a story to her numerous male admirers. Deacon smirked. Maybe Hancock _did_ like a challenge.

“She floated in here all the way from New Vegas. Showgirl.” He lifted up his hands, “Little Miss Peaches N’ Cream: The Sweetest Burlesque Dancer In The Mojave.” Deacon tried not to laugh as Hancock sighed and took another swig from the bottle. “That’s how she introduced herself.” He let out a small, wistful sob. “She’s perfect.”

Rosie put a hand over his. “Why don’t you go over there and make your move, then? What kind of girl wouldn’t want a little bit of Goodneighbor’s handsome, dashing mayor?”

He hiccuped. “She’s not a girl, she's an angel.”

Aw. Poor Mayor had it real, real bad.

Suddenly there was a loud, excited gasp, and the two of them turned to see Peaches bouncing over. Like literally, bouncing. That dress didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. 

Hancock scrambled to sit up straight as Peaches sat on the arm of his couch.

“Hello! I haven’t seen you two yet! Are you two friends of Hancock’s?” She looked at Rosie and gasped. “Oh, darling...You’re just gorgeous! What’s your name?”

Deacon fought to hide his smile as he watched Rosie blush. “Uh...Rosie. Rosie Castevet.”

‘Peaches’ noticed Rosie’s pink face and laughed, throwing her head back. “Oh please, baby, don’t be embarrassed. You simply must know you look good enough to eat! And you…” She playfully swatted Deacon's shoulder, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you handsome. I absolutely adore a dark and brooding type.” 

He gave her a smile that bordered on a grimace. Moody and unfriendly. The anti-Peaches, thank you.

She finally turned her sparkling attention to Hancock.

“John, babydoll, you left me all alone with those brutes! I don’t mind putting on a show, but I do love a _private_ audience, don’t you?”

Deacon studied her face as she spoke. He had to give it to Hancock, she was a beautiful girl. She had wide, dark eyes with thick lashes, and pouty lips that were almost constantly set in a small smile. Her strawberry-blonde hair was set in glamour girl waves around her shoulders and she even had a small birthmark painted in the shape of a heart on her right cheek. Oh how coy, Miss Peaches. He chuckled to himself, please let that be her real name, please let that be her real name, please let that be her real name...

Hancock gave a roguish smile, despite his inebriation. “Trust me, dewdrop. You have my undivided attention.”

Peaches squealed with laughter as she moved onto his lap.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute, sugar.” She tucked herself under his arm. “But I bet the hard part with a man like you is keeping it.”

Deacon rolled his eyes behind his glasses. She was a real operator, obviously. He couldn’t decide if it made them a perfect for each other, or if Hancock should be extremely suspicious about Little Miss Peaches intentions.

Oh, who was he kidding. Either way they were a match made in heaven.

Rosie spoke suddenly and he smirked. Someone was obviously feeling a little uncomfortable. 

“So, Peaches, Hancock tells me you came all the way from New Vegas. What brings you to Boston?”

Peaches laughed and swatted her hand lazily. “Oh, same old story. Some mobster from around here showed up at The Aces-” She took a sip of her martini, “That’s where I used to dance, by the way. The Aces Theater inside The Tops Casino. You know it?” Rosie shook her head. “Oh, darling, it’s a fabulous little joint. Anyway, this wiseguy works his way backstage one evening and tells me he’s a big powerful mob boss from Boston, and dumb little me get’s all excited, right? So now I’m Francis “Peanuts” Donughue’s arm candy, and he tells me I’m goin’ back to Boston with him. I say ‘what the hell,’ and hitch a ride on his caravan, and we finally get here right? Only then I find him in bed with some mousy broad, so I shoot the bastard, take his caps and make my way here!” She giggled and absent-mindedly ran a hand across the ruffles in Hancock’s pearly white shirt. “Nothin’ fixes a broken heart like a smoking gun, huh? Besides, Goodneighbor pretty much rivals The Tops for bacchanalia, don’t ya think?”

Hancock let out a small chuckle that was more rumble rumble than laugh, and Deacon knew the game was on. If that whole 'shooting my cheating boy toy and leaving with the caps' story didn’t get a party started in Hancock’s pants, nothing would.

“Oh, doll, you haven’t seen bacchanalia yet.”

Peaches turned to him and purred, “Then why don’t you show me? Mayor Hancock.”

He flashed a predatory grin. “Can’t believe some dumbass was lousin’ out on you, gorgeous.”

“Neither could I! Why do you think I blew the motherfuckers brains out!”

They both roared in laughter. Rosie gave him a glance and he waggled his eyebrows. It suddenly seemed like they were intruding on a uh...very private party.

“Say, why don’t you show me some of that act you were talking about, princess. I heard you say you liked a private audience.”

She giggled. “Well you sure don’t miss a thing, do you sugar?”

Hancock stood and took her by the hand to the V.I.P. room. “I sure don’t.” 

He took her by the waist and off they went. Peaches turned her head and sent them a small wave.

“Nice meeting you two!”

Rosie sent a small wave back and laughed. “Well, I thought I was gonna have to play wingman, but it looks like Hancock has it handled.”

“He usually does.” Please. If there was anyone in the world who didn’t need a wingman, it was Hancock.

A perky woman in a mini skirt placed a drink on the table between them and Rosie frowned. “What are you so grumpy for? Don’t you think she’s perfect for him?”

“Grumpy? Sweetheart, I’m just trying to maintain my ‘dark and brooding’ image.”

She laughed and took a sip from her drink, immediately wincing.

“Oh, wow. That- That’s a lot more jack than cola.”

“A little strong for you, princess?”

She scrunched her nose. “Shut up. You don’t even drink.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She threw her head back dramatically and groaned. “You never say anything!”

He smiled. She was so cute angry. “I say plenty.”

“No! You talk plenty. There’s a difference.” She took another sip from her drink. “You talk and talk and talk, so people think they’re getting to know you, but you never really say anything.”

He grinned. Next lesson.

“You got it, sweetheart. Keeps everybody safe that way.” He sighed. “But you know what? I think it’s time you learn the big secret.”

She snorted, “Yeah right.”

“No, I do.” He sighed as Rosie drained her drink and gestured for another round. “Everybody thinks Desdemona’s the leader of the Railroad. The big boss. She calls the ops, gives the ra-ra speeches, but guess what?”

She smiled as another waitress brought her drink. “What?”

“It’s all an act.” He spread his arms, “She does what I tell her to, because the Railroad? That’s my show. Has been since I founded it.”

He watched her unsuccessfully hide a small hiccup. “Bullshit.”

“Me and Johnny D. and Watts. Shit, must’ve been sixty, seventy years ago? You lose count after a while.”

That was the way to do it. Take part truth and part ridiculous lie and mix. Too confusing to separate the true parts from the parts that were absolute bullshit.

Rosie scoffed. “Nuh uh. You can call yourself an old man all you want, but you ain’t that old.”

Hm. How cute, her accent was slowly getting thicker. Deacon let out a sigh. “Okay, you got me. I tell everyone I go under the knife to stay anonymous, truth is, it takes a lot of work to stay this handsome.”

He fought his grin back as he gave his best epic dickhead impression. Very Maxson-esque.

“We’ve come a long way since the beginning. Done a lot of good. Saved a lot of synths. But we’re about more than that.” He puffed out his chest, really leaning into the whole self-righteous douche routine. Rosie started giggling. “We’re the last and only line of defense between the Institute and the Commonwealth. Hell, even the world!” Rosie snorted and he cracked a smile, before returning to his posturing, “People think our mission is all about synths? Nah, babycakes. We’re about more than that. We’re building a better, brighter Commonwealth. We’re the best, noblest organization that ever lived! We’re-” He paused as Rosie fell deeper into a fit of laughter, causing him to finally succumb to his own laughter. “We’re- Ah, man. I can’t keep up with this bullshit.” 

Rosie cackled. “You- You were just like Maxson! Like-” She snorted, “Spot on!”

“I’m glad you found it entertaining,” He grinned, “But there’s a lesson there, you know.”

She giggled into her drink. “Of course there is.”

He thought about her on the Prydwen. He thought about stupid Danse and his puppy love, and that scribe that greeted her like old friends. She made bonds like that easily, that’s just who she was. Open and bright and full of life. And beautiful. Objectively, of course. 

She trusted him, but how much? Did she believe in the Railroad’s message enough to not betray them for an organization with considerably more firepower? His mushy, idiotic side hated himself for even thinking it. He wanted to believe that it was impossible. That she would never betray the Railroad like that.

But her kid was on the line. Shit, one look at her boy made his brain go into vengeance mode, too. A power like the Brotherhood would be extremely attractive to a mother on the warpath. He couldn’t blame her for that.

He could try and push her in the right direction, though.

He shifted in his seat and continued, “I’m just saying, there’s other organizations out there. And I’m sure, in time, they’re gonna spoon-feed you their own patented form of bullshit-”

She looked up, “Like you do?”

Damn. Truth hurts. “Yeah, Blondie. Like I do.” He sighed, “But ignore the verbiage. Look at what they’re doing, and what they’re asking you to do. What sort of world would they have you build, and how they’re going to pay for it.”

“At the end of the day, you’re gonna have to make a choice. Make it the right one.”

Rosie looked at him, only two drinks in and already slightly mooney-eyed.

“And you’re the right choice, hm?”

He shrugged. “Don’t think I can tell you that.”

“But you can manipulate me into making the decision you want.”

He furrowed his brow. Woah. Where was all this coming from? A minute ago she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Now, she was cold and distant, her face stormy and her eyes filled with an icy anger.

It had him worried. Especially because she was right.

“Guess you’re a mean drunk, then, huh?”

“But it’s true, right?” Her face changed and her eyes filled with tears, “That’s what you’re doing all this for. I’m a pig being raised for slaughter.”

What the fuck was happening here? He was baffled at how fast this conversation had gotten away from him.

“No, Rosie, that’s not-”

She shook her head, tears falling down her face. “I’ve been fooled, haven’t I? I thought- But I knew-”

Oh, god. She kept shaking her head, wringing her hands and breathing heavily in her seat. He had been waiting for this. After all the shit she had seen today, he knew a fall was coming.

He had just been hoping it wouldn’t happen _here,_ but hey, who hadn’t had an emotional breakdown in a bar once or twice?

“Okay. I think it’s time to go.”

She jumped as the band started up again, this time with Magnolia and Peaches wrapped around each other at the mic. Perfect. Nobody with a show like that would pay any attention to the Minutemen General having a panic attack in the corner.

Rosie glared at him as he put a hand on her arm. “Oh, you think it’s time to go?” She wrenched her arm away, “You can’t just tell me what to do! I’m not as soft and fragile as you think I am, you know.” She stood up, swaying slightly, and jabbed a finger to his chest. “You know what I think? I think you’re projecting, Deacon. Psychological projection! I think you’re the soft, fragile one, and you can’t stand to think about it!”

Deacon felt anger flare inside of him as she rattled on. Who the fuck did this little squirt think she is? He watched her face turn a bright shade of red as she growled at him, as if she had the right. She barely knew a thing about him, she had said so herself, so where did all this confidence come from?

He scoffed. Nowhere. Total bullshit.

She stood on her tiptoes, only getting up to his collarbone, and hissed at him, “Spouting all this shit about lying to people to protect them. You lie to protect yourself.” She scoffed, “You think you’re unreadable? Think again. Any fool can see you hate yourself. It's like you're shouting it at the top of you lungs. Even if you’ll never let anyone know why, it's there.” She lifted her chin, "I see through you."

Deacon felt something inside of him snap. Rosie apparently saw the change immediately, as her eyes went wide and she took a few steps back. He laughed. Idiot. Thinking she could turn back now.

He grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her over one shoulder as she shrieked. Yeah, whatever. He was a lot gentler than he could’ve been. He trudged through the bar and up the stairs, her protests all but completely drowned out by the sounds of the band and the roaring crowd. Even Ham was snoozing in his armchair, unbothered by her caterwauling.

“I hope you know, I have no reservations about beating your ass in front of the entire neighborhood watch.”

She pounded her fists on his back. “You wouldn’t dare!”

He rolled his eyes and growled, “Try me.”

He carted her through the street, shrugging and mumbling comments at the watch about his lady friend’s drunkenness as he walked towards the Rex. 

When he finally got to the lobby, Claire at the front desk gave him a quizzical look.

He shrugged. “She’s a mean drunk.”

Rosie shreaked, “I am not! I’m more sober than I’ve ever been in my life! I’m-” She mumbled, “Oh, I’m gonna be sick.”

He dropped the caps on the counter and Claire slid him a key.

“Just make sure she doesn’t puke on my floor.”

Deacon trudged up the stairs, Rosie still persistently thrashing and attempting to worm out of his hold. He finally found their room, unlocked the door and tossed her on the bed, a little rougher than he should’ve been maybe, but serves her right.

She immediately scrambled to her knees on the mattress, sobbing and shoving at his torso.

“You’re no gentleman!”

No kidding. “Rosie-”

“You horrible fucking-”

“Rosie!”

“Liar! No good, son of a-”

“ROSIE!” He held her by the arms as he shouted at her, almost surprised at himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had yelled like that, and it irritated him. This fucking girl was making him crazy.

He grabbed her roughly by the chin and forced her to look at him, even as she sobbed. He ripped off his stupid glasses and stared at her bloodshot eyes. There. Maybe she’d believe him now.

“Are you a fucking idiot? You think I’m just playing around with you, huh? Using you and tossing you to the wolves for some nefarious purpose. Is that it?”

She jerked her head, “Let me go!”

He tightened his grip and bent down until they were completely eye to eye. “Not until you listen to me. Shut up for one _fucking_ minute and listen to what I’m saying.” She stilled, and bubbling anger took over his mouth.

“I care about you. Okay? For some stupid fucking reason, I care about your dumb ass. Go ahead, call me a dirty liar. No one would blame you. But if you believe anything, believe this-”

He centered all his anger, and it blocked out his incessant fear as he ripped further honesty from his own mouth.

“I’m in your corner, Rosie. Always have been, always will be.”

Tears fell softly down her cheeks even as her face went slack, and Deacon ignored the pull to stop all this and apologize profusely. She had to understand how fucking stupid she had been. They were trying to run a covert operation here for fuck’s sake. She couldn’t go running that big fat mouth of hers in public. It was dumb. Impulsive. Reactive. Perfectly in character, honestly. He leaned in close, whispering low as he stared her down.

"One more thing," He stopped crouching and raised up, tilting her face up to look at him, so close he could feel her shuddering breath-

"If you pull a stunt like that again, I won’t hesitate to beat that sweet little ass of yours. Do you understand me?”

He felt his anger start to ebb and be replaced by another feeling entirely as he watched her pupils blow up to the size of dinner plates, swallowing the pale blue of her irises like an eclipse. Her breath hitched and her mouth fell open slightly as she turned a dark red. Oh. _Oh._

She nodded slowly, and he definitely took notice as she became momentarily distracted by his lips, or the small spot in his neck that he knew his angry pulse must be showing through by now. Well...wasn't this interesting?

“How about you use your words, then maybe I’ll believe you.”

Her flush deepened, and even started crawling down her chest. Deacon found himself wondering just how far that blush went.

Rosie spoke, almost too quiet to hear.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

A small pause. “Yes sir.”

Oh, _fuck_ that was hot. A small zing of feelings he’d really rather ignore right now went through him, and he wondered how far he’d have to push it to get her to say that again. And again. And maybe one more time. Get it on tape perhaps? He smirked as he released her chin, gently this time, letting his fingertips linger on her jaw as he finally released her.

“I also would have accepted, ‘Yes, Deacon,’ but full marks nonetheless.” 

Damn. This girl was crazy.

Unfortunately, it was exactly the kind of crazy he liked.

He put his glasses back on and fell into the armchair at the corner of the room. His anger was all but gone as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He frowned. He knew better than this, letting emotion run the show. How did he let that happen?

He looked up as Rosie fidgeted on the mattress. Son of a bitch.

He had been conned. She had one insecurity, one thing she needed to know about him, and boom! Just like that, she got her answer. She had pushed and prodded and poked the beast until he practically handed it to her on a silver platter. Maybe she was making it all up, flying by the seat of her pants, or maybe, infinitely more terrifying, she knew that it only got him so bad because she was absolutely right.

But judging by her current quiet timidity, he guessed she hadn’t anticipated it working quite this well.

Deacon spoke as he lit his cigarette.

“What’s the matter?”

She looked up at him, shook her head, and looked back down, and he felt a small stab of anxiety.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, forcefully this time.

“No.”

Her voice was small. Feeble. He didn’t like it.

She spoke up again.

“I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “No you’re not.”

She sniffled, “Yes, I am.”

She was still sitting on the mattress, staring down at her hands. Aw, man. He didn’t want this.

“I think it’s bedtime.”

She nodded, and unlaced her boots. He smiled. He loved those boots. Brown leather all the way up to her knees. Cool as fuck.

She finally got them off, and slipped her coat off as well, hanging it on the bed frame. She curled into a ball at the top of the bed, arms around her knees and her hands around the ankles of her little knit socks. Adorable.

He chuckled and she looked over at the sound, her eyes flashing to the cigarette in his right hand.

He smiled. “You want one?”

She nodded and he came over, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and handed her his still smoking cigarette, and she took it in trembling hands. He fished another out of his jacket and lit it.

Her head slowly fell onto his shoulder and she sighed.

“Your shoulders are really tense.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did I do that?”

He smiled softly. “No, baby. They’re always like that.”

She ran a hand across the tight muscles at the top of his back.

“You have a lot of knots.” 

He nodded, and they sat like that for a minute, smoking in silence.

“I really am sorry.”

He frowned. “Don’t be, sweetheart.” He sighed, “You’ve had a hell of a day.”

“That doesn’t- I shouldn't have-” She huffed. 

“It’s over.” He smiled and kissed the top of her head, “Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.”

She let out a small laugh, and he felt it more than heard it.

"You're scary when you're mad."

He winced. "I know. I'm sorry."

She let out a small yawn, and Deacon felt a squeeze in his chest.

"Aw, don't be, sweetheart."

She slowly started to nod off, snuggling against his shoulder, and he took the cigarette out of her hand and snuffed it in the ashtray on the bedside table.

He sighed. Oh, Rosie.

If you only knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing...Little Miss Peaches N' Cream!!! I...have a lot of feelings about this chapter, lol.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! <3
> 
> And you can follow me on tumblr @velvet-verve ;)


	15. Sierra Hotel.

After that night, something changed.

He noticed it almost immediately. Rosie had woken up that morning and immediately looked around the room for him, smiling once she found him in his armchair. They were a pair now. A matched set. 

He was constantly aware of her physically. It was hard not to be. Her emotions ran rampant, with high highs and very low lows. Luckily, in the three months since the Memory Den, he had found out how to deal with them.

When Rosie was happy, things were easy. She hummed and smiled and thought he was the funniest person alive. When Rosie was angry, he gave her something to hit. Or shoot, preferably. Her hand-to-hand combat skills still needed work. Then once she had worn herself out, he would tell her his worst jokes until she cracked a smile and then it was over. Usually. If Rosie was grumpy, feed her. Boom. Problem solved. 

Sad was a little bit harder. It seemed to wash over her like waves, and then she was a thousand miles away. Her eyes would glaze over, and she would be unresponsive. Not even the most horrible of puns or silliest of songs shook her out of it. He would get a pity smile at best, and then she would be gone. Somewhere far away. When Rosie was sad, she needed time.

It sounded awful, but his favorite was when she couldn’t sleep. She would toss and turn, or worse, wake up with a start in the middle of the night, and then she would shake him awake. Sort of. He usually wasn’t sleeping anyway. Then she would put her head in his lap and he would comb through her hair until she dozed off. He couldn’t remember exactly how that started, but goddamn was he happy that it did.

He knew what he was doing. It was a bad idea, he knew that. But it was like he couldn’t stop himself. He snuck small moments of physical contact like that whenever possible. He couldn’t ignore how her skin felt under his fingers, or how her hair seemed to be the softest thing on planet earth. He would press chaste, “platonic,” kisses to her head, grab her hand to lead her places even when she definitely knew where she was going, or ask, “do I need a shave?” practically every other goddamn day just so she would touch his face. And yet, it still wasn’t enough. He still found his mind wandering during the day, thinking about how her tiny little frame would feel under his hands, or what she would do if he just pulled her into his lap one day and held her there. And those were the more...uh...decent thoughts that he had.

The sex dreams were real inconvenient, too. Especially since they slept right next to each other nearly every night. There had been several times where he had woken up with Rosie’s head on his chest, mentally shouting at his dick to get the message that this was most definitely _not the time,_ while images of Rosie in nothing but her naughties saying absolutely _sinful_ things to him were still vivid in his brain.

And then came guilt. Then came the staggering realization that they were out here working towards her baby, and even if she didn’t wear the ring anymore, to Rosie, her husband had only been gone...what, eight months? And then he felt like a dirty old man all over again. For fuck’s sake, the girl was only twenty five.

So he tried to keep things busy all the time. Shit, when they made it back to HQ and told Desdemona that Kellogg was a man of the past and that they had discovered the Institute’s biggest secret, he thought Desdemona might erect a statue in Rosie’s likeness. 

They were still playing their little game too. When Rosie had a small episode at the former Augusta safe house, she told him that a comrade in the war had burned alive in his plane, and the smell of burning flesh in the safehouse had set her off. He told her his favorite author was Marcel Proust. She told him the most trouble she ever got in was when she was fourteen, when she broke her older sister Christina’s nose, who was nineteen at the time, and then told her she could finally get the nose job she always wanted. He laughed for a solid three minutes, and then told her he was ambidextrous. She called him a dork, and somehow it was the best compliment he’d ever gotten. She told him she got kissed for the first time in a tire swing, and then she beat up the boy that did it. Billie Russo. Age twelve. He told her he was married once. He got a kiss on the cheek for that one.

They had been busy the past three months, but unfortunately, hazmat suits were hard to come by, and since Rosie had absolutely refused Deacon’s suggestion to make use of the suit of power armor that had been given to her as part of her Brotherhood knight status, hazmat suits were what they needed to find. It seemed like they had slowly but surely combed through every science-ey high tech facility in Boston, and still no dice. She even told Daisy that if she saw a pair to stash them for her, but it looked like she might have to take advantage of the Brotherhood whether she liked it or not.

Right now though, they weren’t thinking about that.

“Square your shoulders, Rosie.”

They were on one of the little beaches on Spectacle Island, Rosie a few feet away from him, fists up. The moment he said her hand to hand combat skills left something to be desired, she had pestered him until he finally agreed to teach her. In a very hands on way, of course.

So here they were, for the third time this week, wrestling on the beach. Rosie was shimmering with sweat in the July sun, in a cropped gingham blouse and shorts that bordered on indecent, making small adjustments to her stance. The funny thing was, she always tried to win. Like he didn’t have a hundred pound advantage and wasn’t a foot taller than she was.

He smiled as the small furrow appeared in her brow. Silly girl. So determined.

And was _so_ gonna lose.

“Plant your feet, sweetheart, you know that.”

“I’m standing in sand!”

“You’ve been standing in sand every time.”

She huffed. “You’re not even in position.”

He grinned, “I’m giving you a head start, squirt.” He beckoned her forward, “Let’s see it.”

She leapt forward, wasting an exponential amount of energy while doing it of course, and swung for a body shot. He let it land and grabbed her by the waist as he doubled over, hoisting her up and flipping her over his shoulder. She landed cat-like behind him, and rolled out of it in a somersault, whipping around to face him. He smiled.

“Atta girl. Show ‘em what those gold medals were for.”

She gave him a feral sort of grin and charged forward again. He took a swing above her head and she grabbed him by the arm, crouching and flipping him over using her entire body weight. He had taught her that one. It was the only way she was ever gonna move somebody twice her size.

So now she had him on the ground, but she always forgot the release afterwards. She still had two hands on his arm, and he managed to pull her and grab her torso, wrestling her back to the ground and flipping her on to her back. Then he grabbed her by the wrists and straddled her. Pinned.

“Would you look at that. I win. Again.”

She was still desperately trying to wiggle out from under him. “I didn’t say uncle!”

He frowned thoughtfully, despite his position. “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t.” He grinned down at her. “So what’s your move, hot stuff?”

There was actually a pretty simple way to get out of this, but he'd teach her that one later.

She growled and gnashed her teeth. “My move? My move-” She let out a frustrated shout. “Fuck! Why are you so heavy?”

He gasped. “Are you calling me fat?”

“Yes!” Her face was flushed, and the hair around her face was stuck to her skin with sweat. It was, in a word, incredibly hot. Okay, maybe two words.

“I resent that, Rosie. Poor sportsmanship.”

He heard her sneakers stomping in the sand. “Fuck your sportsmanship!”

He let her hands go and folded his arms. She balled her hands into fists and started punching at his thighs. He laughed. Useless and stupid.

“I guess I’ll just have to sit here until you call uncle then.” He tutted. “This our fourth match today, Rosie. You’d think you would’ve learned by now.”

She squealed in frustration. “Get! Off!”

“You know, I don’t think I will. I’m pretty comfortable right here. Even if you are kind of bony.” She reached for his face and he leaned back slightly. “Woah, watch the moneymaker, baby.”

She collapsed against the sand, her whole body going limp.

“Fine. I give up.”

“Bzzt. Wrong answer. I know that trick, stupid. Gotta say the word.”

She pursed her lips. “Never!”

“Never?”

“You’ll have to put me in the ground, D.”

He raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the ocean. “Or in the water.”

She folded her arms, which he considered a pretty bold move for someone he was currently sitting on top of.

He laughed. “Oh, are you pouting now? Sore loser?”

She just stuck her tongue out, and he took a moment to decide how mean he wanted to be.

“Water it is, then.”

In one quick motion, he stood and picked her up bridal style, carrying her over to the waves. She screamed and clawed at his exposed shoulders.

“If you don’t cut it out, I’m gonna start carrying you in a much less dignified way.”

She continued her protesting, “No, no water! Don’t! I’m sorry!”

He prepped himself to launch her into the tide. “Sorry doesn’t count. Gotta say the word, princess.”

She started whining, and he rolled his eyes. That never worked.

“Last chance. Three...Two…”

“Uncle! Oh for fuck’s sake, uncle!”

He stopped. “See? Was that so hard?” He let her down, and thought about the fact that if he felt like being a little meaner, he would’ve just dropped her in anyway for being such a big baby.

She fiddled with her clothes and pouted. “You never let me win.”

He ruffled her hair and then finger-combed through it to get the sand out. “What’s the fun in that?”

She huffed. “Fatty.”

He laughed, “Excuse me, young lady? I could still dump you in the water.”

She just gave him a cheeky grin and looked at the sky. “Guess it’s time to go inside. Getting dark.”

The sun was tinting all the clouds shades of purple and pink, and he smiled. “I love when the sky does that.”

She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the house. “Mmm. Purple.”

He smiled. It was his favorite color for that exact reason, actually. “You caught me.”

Rosie’s ginger cat stretched on the porch and chirped to greet them. Rosie bent and ran her fingers through her fur before going inside.

Codsworth was dawdling in the kitchen when they entered, while Dogmeat snoozed in his bed by the back door.

Rosie took a deep breath, “Oh, Codsworth, what smells so good?”

Codsworth swiveled to face her, even as his appendages continued to work.

“I am attempting to fry a radchicken, mum! So far, so good, although I will say the fat content is...unexpected.”

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful for the Fourth of July! You’re a saint, Codsworth.”

“I certainly try my best, mum!”

Deacon had wandered over to give Dogmeat a proper greeting, while Rosie browsed through her holotapes.

“Hey, Deacon. How do you feel about seeing a couple of home videos? I’m feeling nostalgic.”

He grinned up at her as he did a little dance in his head. She had only let him see one so far and that was _weeks_ ago. It was an airshow, and he had been absolutely flabbergasted when he saw all those planes actually fly in the air. Even more so when she pointed out the one she was flying in.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Codsworth tutted. “Oh, Mister Deacon, honestly. You’re as bad as mum.”

Rosie giggled and rolled her eyes as she pulled a small box off the holotape shelf. Deacon all but ran over and took a spot on the rug, with his back up against the couch.

Rosie frowned thoughtfully. “Hm. Do you wanna see...Mary’s wedding, or...Oh! My baby shower!”

Well if he was being honest, both. He knew Mary was much older, seven years if he was remembering right, and he definitely wanted to see Rosie as a kid, but that baby shower idea seemed a whole lot more bright and shiny right about now.

“Oh, baby shower, definitely.”

She giggled as she put the tape in. “You sure? Mary planned a beautiful wedding. She looked gorgeous.” She sat in her spot on the couch next to him, “Well, maybe we can watch that one too.”

Deacon wiggled slightly in his seat. He had barely seen her in person on tape yet. The airshow just had a shot of her far away. He looked over and saw a small scrape on her knee.

He tapped her leg. “What’s this?”

She looked down at her legs. “Oh! So that’s what stings! I guess I should go get the first aid kit.”

He shook his head. Silly girl. “I’ll get it.”

She swatted her hand at him, “Then you’ll miss the beginning! I lived through this sugar, you stay right there.”

She padded into the kitchen as static appeared on screen. Deacon watched, giddy, as the video started.

It was the interior of probably the cleanest house he’d ever seen. There was floral patterned wallpaper on the walls, and brightly colored patterned furniture. A bright, feminine voice was narrating.

_“Here we are, future Rosie. Mama’s house!”_

Rosie spoke as she sat back down. “That’s Barbie behind the camera. Barbara.”

Deacon winced at the name. Couldn’t help it. Every time she called her sister by her full name he felt a punch to the gut. Thankfully, she had hated being called Barbara, so Rosie never really did. 

The camera turned and focused on a tall blonde girl with a sweet face. 

_“Say hi, Alice!”_

Rosie soaked a piece of cotton in alcohol and dabbed at her knee. “Fourth sister.”

Deacon nodded, “Watercolor artist.”

“You remembered!”

Of course. Of course he remembered.

The camera panned around to the kitchen, where a large crowd was scattered about.

Rosie pointed to an older woman frosting a bright yellow cake. “That’s Mama. Fussin’ as usual.”

Deacon laughed. She was indeed snapping little commands at the two women on either side of her.

“Tina’s on the left, Mary’s on the right.”

Right. Christina. Her and Rosie didn’t get along. Mary, oldest sister. She was the one who taught Rosie to knit.

Two men were sitting on bar stools at the counter, their backs facing the camera.

_“Daddy, Nate, turn around! Say hi!”_

The two men turned and waved to the camera, beers in hand. Rosie scoffed.

“Nate had said he wasn’t gonna drink, you know.”

Deacon studied the two of them. Her father reminded him of someone from a movie he had seen once, but he couldn’t place who. He was cheerful, with a mischievous sparkle in his eye and a wide grin. Deacon smiled. He could definitely see the resemblance. All the way up to the man’s curly gray hair. 

Nate was a different story. He was handsome, definitely. He looked like something out of the prewar magazines. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a quiet confidence to him that could definitely be read as intimidating. 

_“You’re gonna be a daddy, Nate! How’s it feel?”_

Rosie’s father laughed, and Deacon was shocked at how much it reminded him of her. Nate smiled softly and looked away from the camera lens. 

_“Uh, good? Great? Aw, jeez. I dunno Barbie, ask me when it gets here.”_

The two men shared another laugh. Nate seemed shy. Quiet and reserved. He wondered how that paired with Rosie’s feisty attitude. Deacon chuckled. The poor man.

Then, finally, the camera moved over to the kitchen table, where Rosie sat at the head of the it. Deacon grinned. Whatever he had imagined, it wasn’t nearly as amazing as this.

“Holy shit, you’re huge!”

Rosie laughed, “Thanks, D. I think I had every right to be, Shaun was due in a month.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since she came on screen. She was wearing a blue gingham dress that tented over her large belly. The sun was coming through the windows, and it lit her beautifully, giving her a glow that could only be described as angelic. Her hair was long, and it shone gold in the sunlight. She was chatting with the old woman next to her, a hand on her belly and a soft smile on her lips.

“The woman I’m talking to is my Grandma Tilly. Mom’s side. She died not long after Shaun was born.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. She had been sick for a long time. We were just glad she got to see the baby.”

The camera moved closer and the angle changed as Barbie sat down. Rosie finally noticed the camera and beamed, wiggling slightly in her chair.

_“Hi baby mama! How do you feel?”_

Rosie giggled on the screen and fanned herself as she responded,

_“Barbie, I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church.”_

A small shriek came from off camera.

_“Rosie Grace Castevet, you watch your mouth!”_

“That was Mama, if you hadn’t already guessed.”

Deacon laughed. “I figured.”

“It was Texas in the middle of July! What did she want me to do, lie?”

They watched the rest of the video in companionable silence. He watched her and her sisters play silly little games in the living room, guessing the baby’s weight, what day it would be born, betting on the gender, etcetera. Her sister Christina almost never left her mothers side, he noticed, and they both had the same sour expression on their face. Huh. No wonder they didn’t get along.

He didn’t pay much attention to anyone else when Rosie was on screen, though. He couldn’t help it. She almost never stopped smiling, and even swollen up like a beach ball, she still bounced around, giggling and eating little finger foods. Every time she passed by Nate he reached out and touched her, giving her a small smile. Even while her attention zig-zagged around the room, Nate remained calm and stoic, lounging in a chair next to hers and watching her buzz around. 

Yeah, he understood now. Nate was her antithesis. The cool presence to calm her fire. It made sense. The unflappable, quietly confident soldier. 

The video ended with a shot of Nate and Rosie sat on the couch together, Rosie obviously tuckered out from the festivities.

_“Any last words for the video, you two?”_

Nate gave her a kiss on the cheek as she spoke,

_“Hi, baby! We’re so excited to meet you! Please be a girl!”_

The Rosie on screen fell into giggles as Nate protested,

_“Nuh uh. Boy please. Do your old man a favor, pal.”_

Present Rosie chuckled next to him.

“I wanted a girl so bad. I was royally pissed when the doctor told me I’d had a baby boy.”

The video clicked into static and Deacon frowned. He could’ve watched it forever.

“That’s all! Pretty silly, huh?”

He couldn't have disagreed more. “I thought it was cute.”

She laughed, “You think?”

He nodded. Momentarily letting the strange feeling in his stomach ask questions for him.

"So that was Nate, huh?”

She smiled softly and fiddled with her ringless ring finger. “Mhm. That was him lively, if you can believe it. He never really got excited or emotional or anything like that. I’d only ever seen him angry twice, and even then I-”

She stopped suddenly, and Deacon watched as her whole demeanor changed. Her eyes glossed over and her face fell, suddenly distant and distraught.

Deacon lifted himself onto the couch and took her hand in his. “Rosie? You still with me?”

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly tear filled and haunted. 

“I- I just thought about him upset and I…When they tried to-”

He tilted his head. Suddenly remembering Nate's desperate attempt to keep the baby away from the figures in clean suits. Ah.

He squeezed her hand, searching for a way to get her thoughts away from the vault. “Rosie, sweetheart, let's not-”

She reached out a hand and touched his face.

“You remind me of him, you know. You’re nothing alike, but somehow…” 

She rubbed a thumb across his cheek.

“You both...always seem to have something bubbling just under the surface.” She muttered, “Deep, like the ocean.”

She took her hand away, and looked around, suddenly restless.

“I’m sorry, you’ll- You’ll have to excuse me.”

She hopped off of the couch and dashed up the stairs, and he heard the slam of the bedroom door. Deacon let out a sigh. Sad. She needed time.

An hour later, Deacon softly knocked on the bedroom door, a full dinner plate in his left hand, and Rosie responded, muffled through the door.

“Come in.”

She was curled up on her bed against the headboard, staring out of the open window that looked out onto the sea, her hair blowing slightly in the breeze. She didn’t look up when he sat down next to her.

“Well, me and Codsworth had a lovely dinner date without you. He’s a very sensitive lover. I feel like we really have a connection.”

Nothing.

He pushed her plate towards her. “You know he’s very touchy about his postwar cooking methods. I think he might implode if you miss out on your dinner again.”

She finally turned to him, face swollen and puffy.

“What if he doesn’t want me?”

He frowned. “Who, Rosie?”

“My baby. I mean- Shaun.” Something about her gaze made him feel like he was being x-rayed. “He’s a little boy now. He doesn’t know who I am. When that courser took him...he said-” She took a shaky breath, “He said ‘are you taking me to see my father?’ What if they’ve replaced me? What if he hates me when I finally get to him?”

“No, sweetheart. Not gonna happen.” He shrugged, “Or, shit, maybe he will at first, but you’re his mother. There’s a bond there. He came out of you, for fuck’s sake. There’s no way he’ll hate you." She stared down at her hands, and he lifted her chin until they were eye to eye, "How could he? Shit, how could anyone?”

She smiled softly. “You really think so?”

“I know so. And I know everything.”

She gingerly pulled her dinner plate closer and picked up her fork. “I keep thinking how silly I’m gonna look with a ten year old boy. He’s probably gonna be almost as tall as me already.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Lots of girls have kids that young nowadays.”

She looked up, slightly horrified, “At _fifteen_?”

He nodded and she shook her head, finally taking a bite of tato. “That’s awful. Babies having babies.” She chewed thoughtfully, “Then again, I was practically an old maid by the time I had Shaun. All my sisters had babies by the time they were eighteen or nineteen.”

Deacon sighed. All this talk about kids made the stupid, mushy side of him long for the life he never got to have. Not that he deserved it, of course. It was just sort of a guilty pleasure to think about. A very, very guilty pleasure.

And Rosie kept worming her way into that particular shameful daydream lately. He should never have watched that baby shower. The image of Rosie eight months pregnant and happily glowing was never gonna leave. It just did something to him. Possibly because his manly caveman brain had definitely, very inconveniently noticed that her breasts had gotten huge during her pregnancy. He sighed. He was a bad, bad man.

“You like kids.”

Deacon shook himself from his thoughts. “Hm?”

“You like kids. I can see it.”

He shrugged. “They’re okay.”

“Oh, please. No use lying to me about that. You should see your face whenever you see Duncan.” She stuck out her lip, “You go all mooney-eyed.”

“Psh. You can’t even see my eyes.”

She spoke between mouthfuls, “It’s true! I think RJ can see it too. That’s why he’s been...uh...not _nice_....but tolerating you.”

He didn’t like this topic. It made him feel twitchy. Trapped. “Duncan’s cute, I guess. Even if he is half Macready.”

She finally finished her dinner and set the plate on her nightstand. “Oh, he’s adorable. He’s gonna grow up to be quite the ladykiller. I can already tell.”

She paused for a moment, studying him. 

“Deacon?”

“Mhm.”

“Did you ever have kids?”

Fuck. As soon as she asked it he felt like he had been dunked in ice water. 

“I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Oh. Well it’s just you said you had been married-”

He kept his face flat, even as he felt a stab in his gut. “Please, Rosie. Don’t.”

She stopped, and he sighed. This had happened a few times. She had just outright asked him a question that was too much. Way too much. 

He felt her small hand on his and looked down, suddenly realizing he had them balled into fists. She slowly flipped his hand over and he relaxed it, opening his palm as she pressed her hand against his own.

She smiled. “Your hands are big.”

“Nah, you just have baby hands.”

This is what he liked about her. Well, he liked a lot of things about her, but this was a big one. Even with her endless talking and pestering and questions, she always knew when to stop. She always knew when it was too much.

And hey, sure she pushed it a little, but he liked that too. The way she changed from an obnoxious little brat to a warm, soothing presence. Like now, as she dragged her fingertips across his palm. Calm and silent.

He sighed. She had him. He let himself get too close, and he had fallen for her. Hard. Part of him looked at her and wondered, or hoped more like, that she felt something for him, too. But it was impossible. He knew that. He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t do that to her. She deserved better. So, so much better. 

So, fine. He’d carry his secret torch. He always had been a glutton for punishment.

“You’ve got a long life line.”

She was tracing the lines on his palm with her fingertips, and he had all but melted against the headboard under her touch. 

“Hm?”

She giggled, “Are you falling asleep on me?”

“Maybe.” He felt tingly and warm. His mind was foggy and unfocused, for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Well, from what I see here, you’re gonna live to a ripe old age.”

“Shame. Always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.” 

He was just running his mouth at this point, only vaguely aware of what he was saying. He basically just put the dial in his brain on ‘smartass’ and let it rip.

“No, you can’t do that. What would I do without you?”

He let the last sentence wash over him, soft and soothing, and felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He closed his eyes and sighed as she dragged her fingertips, light as a feather, up and down his forearm, too lost in the sensation to let panic set in like it usually did. He just focused on the warm hand cradling his wrist, and the other ghosting along his skin. Christ, how stupid could he be? He’d been missing out on feeling like _this_ , because he was afraid. Always afraid. What a fucking dumb ass. Who could be scared of her?

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”

“Mm.” He didn’t think he’d ever _been_ this relaxed. That should scare him. But scared was definitely not what he was feeling right now.

He heard her soft little laugh close to his ear. “Goodness gracious, Deacon, when was the last time someone touched you?”

Her question bounced around in his head. She meant it as a joke, but honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched like this. Soft and gentle and safe and dare he say loving...

“Maybe you’re just magic.”

Or an angel. A beautiful, golden haired angel.

“Maybe now you’ll let me get those knots out of your shoulders.”

She had made a circle around his bicep on the word ‘shoulders,’ and he shivered. Nah, he was pretty sure if she put her magical hands anywhere near his neck right now he’d die on the spot. Tempting, though. Very tempting.

Rosie ghosted a hand up towards his neck over his wife-beater, as if asking for permission. He turned his head to look at her, and she gave him a soft smile. Goddamn she was gorgeous. She was looking up at him through her dark lashes, her pale blue eyes glowing like two moons, and he was pretty sure if she asked him anything in the world right now he would have said yes. So he didn’t give her the chance. He dropped forward into her lap and she laughed, blissfully unaware of how she was affecting him. His cheek rubbed slightly against her thigh, and he reveled in the soft flesh there as she squealed.

“I was right, you do need a shave. You’re all prickly.”

He was going to respond, but then she applied a light pressure to his neck, and whatever fool thing his brain had come up with was dissolved in a small groan.

Rosie giggled, “This is great, I finally figured out how to get you to shut up.”

Fuck, yeah she did. He just hummed in response as her hand found a knot in the center of his shoulder blades.

“I think we should go to Goodneighbor tomorrow. Check in with Daisy. If she still comes up empty handed…” She sighed, “I guess we’re taking another trip to the Prydwen.”

“Okay.”

“Shit, I’m only gonna talk to you when you’re like this from now on. Much easier to deal with.”

“Nah, you’d miss my roguish charm.”

She was silent for a moment, and he felt her hand trail further down his back, applying a light pressure.

“You’re very...muscular.”

His eyes shot open. Hm.

“Thanks. They modeled Grognak after me.”

She let out another tiny chuckle, and then stopped. Her hand left his back and he frowned, rising off of her lap. He sat on his knees, and she immediately placed a hand on his chest. 

He suddenly felt very underdressed.

Her sweet face was almost completely slack, and her pupils were blown wide as she stared at him, mouth slightly open and her chest heaving. He tried to get his brain to start working again, but he stalled out as she inched closer, almost in his lap now.

“Rosie?”

“Yes?” She breathed, barely a whisper.

“Whatcha doin?”

He found himself panting slightly, as her other hand came toward his face. She settled on his cheek, before inching slowly towards his glasses.

Even as every molecule in his body screamed to let her do whatever damn thing she wanted, he grabbed her wrist, holding it in place.

Fucking hell. If he wanted to, he could have his mouth on hers in one small movement. He could have his hands all over her, and that gorgeous fucking body pressed flush against his own. He could have a hand in that beautiful hair, and hear all those pretty little noises that so far she’d only made in his dreams.

He could take her. Right here, right now.

“I think...it’s getting late.”

Done. Moment over. And an obvious lie. It was eight fucking thirty.

“Oh. Right.”

She slipped out of his grasp, her face blank.

“I’m gonna...go have a bath. I think.” She slid off the bed. “I’m all sweaty, you know.”

He nodded and she dashed off to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He swallowed. She was hiding from him.

He sighed and flopped onto his back. Fucking idiot. He should never have let it get that far. Now she probably felt rejected or...something. He’d hurt her.

He didn’t know what had happened to him. Maybe she really was magic. Hypnotizing him with her soft little hands until he was nothing but man putty. Or maybe he’d just stupidly let his dick run the show, until his brain finally screamed loud enough to stop him.

Either way, his subconscious was gonna have a field day with this in dream land. 

~

Rose stared into the dark, listening hard to Deacon’s breathing. It had taken a while, but she was fairly confident now that she could tell when he was actually sleeping or not. So she waited, and after what seemed like forever, his breathing evened out, and his jaw finally relaxed.

Rosie slipped out from under the quilt. The cold air hit her bare arms and she shivered in her nightgown, taking her sweater off of the dresser and slipping it on. She grabbed her sneakers from their spot by the door and tiptoed down the stairs.

Dogmeat stirred from his spot on the couch, wagging his tail as she slipped on her shoes by the front door.

She smiled. “Go back to sleep, boy.”

Dogmeat licked his chops and groaned as he settled back to sleep. Rosie gingerly opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, shutting it with a small click. She took a deep breath. She could use a walk right about now.

Darla was grooming her ginger fur by the barn and let out a small meow as she passed, rolling over and exposing her belly. Rosie smiled. What a sweet cat. Her kittens were going to be adorable.

She headed towards the lab, following the slight glow of the large white brick structure and the glass greenhouse on top. She was proud of that. It was built for function, of course, but she thought it was pretty nonetheless. Like a tiny little lighthouse.

She sighed and wrung her hands. This was all wrong. One tiny little action, and she had messed everything up.

Christ, even the thought of it had her face burning. She had been in his lap for shit’s sake, and then he’d told her it was late. At eight o’clock in the evening. And she couldn’t figure out if she felt rejected or relieved that he stopped her. Because in that moment, with him in that god forsaken wifebeater, and the oppressive July heat, she wanted him. Badly. And she hated herself for it.

Honestly, she had been crying over Nate for an hour before he came upstairs. All those tears certainly dried up when she crawled into his lap, huh? What was she thinking, get over someone by getting under someone else? Well, not that she’d...She wasn’t trying to get under him or anything, it was just- Oh, fuck.

She had just misread the signals was all. That had to be it. His reaction when she’d touched him, like he was melting into a puddle beneath her hands...And then his head in her lap, his stubble rubbing against the skin of her thighs...I mean, how was she supposed to interpret that delicious little sound he made when she touched his neck, and the way it rumbled against her skin as her hand had traveled down, down his back, feeling the muscles underneath that thin fabric move ever so slightly under her fingers...goddamn that man...like a bag of goddamn snakes...

She blushed and shook her head. She was terrible. Eight months. That was how long she had been out of the vault. And she knew it had technically been ten years since he had died, but it didn’t feel like it. She cried just taking her ring off, how could she be thinking about another man like this? Even if she did believe, just for a second, that he might have feelings for her too.

But he didn’t. He had made that clear. And that was fine! It was good, really. He had stopped her from making some stupid mistake, when all she really wanted was the emotional closeness that she missed from Nate. That was it. Simple.

So why did she still feel so shitty about it all?

Oh, this wasn’t working at all. She had gone on a walk to clear her head, but she was just thinking in circles. Making it all worse. Like she always did.

She had ended up on the beach, facing the wind coming off the ocean. She took a deep breath as sea spray tickled her face. She needed to talk to somebody. But what do you do when the person you always talk to was the one you needed to talk about? She wrung her hands and looked back on the island, her eyes landing on RJ’s house. Oh, but she couldn’t do that. It was three o’clock in the morning! 

Rosie huffed and fiddled with her sleeves. Sorry, Bobby.

Rosie stood on RJ’s porch, worrying the hem of nightgown as she gathered up the courage to knock on his door. She felt like a little girl again, standing in the doorway of her parents room, debating whether or not to wake her father after she’d had a bad dream.

Papa had always acted like he was happy to see her though, and she seriously doubted RJ would have the same reaction.

She took a deep breath and knocked. Nothing. She steeled herself and knocked again, a little harder this time, and ran a nervous hand through her hair. She heard a small clattering from inside and sucked in a breath. Please don’t be mad, please don’t be mad, please don’t be mad…

The door swung open and RJ appeared, practically steaming at the ears. Thankfully, it was hard to take his anger seriously when he was in his pajama pants.

“Rosie? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

She temporarily ignored his no-no word as she scrambled to apologize. “I know, I know, I’m sorry RJ. I just-” She took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the universe, “I just need to talk to somebody and I know it’s late and I didn’t want to wake you but I’m just making myself upset-”

She stopped as tears choked her, and Mac took her by the hand and brought her inside. “Hey, don’t- Look I'm sorry. I was just worried is all.” He sighed. “Rosie, please don’t cry.”

She sniffed and angrily rubbed the tears off of her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She looked down at his hands. “Is...Is that a baseball bat?”

He started like he had forgotten he had it. “Oh, yeah. I uh, I didn’t know who you were, so-”

“So you answered the door with a bat?”

He shrugged. “Uh, yeah?”

She giggled through her tears. “That’s very silly.”

He scoffed as he put her in his armchair. “Says the girl who just knocked on my door at three in the morning.” He sat down on the couch across from her, “So. What’s the matter?”

She stared down at her lap, woefully realizing she had terribly wrinkled her nightgown. “It’s...Well, I don’t exactly know.” She huffed. “It’s embarrassing.”

He laughed. “Rosie, we’ve passed embarrassing. We passed it a long time ago. You’ve seen me naked-”

She gasped, “On accident!”

“I’ve seen you vomit in a trash can, You've smelled my socks, I've hung your bras on the clothesline, I mean honestly, Rosie, we are so past embarrassing.”

She sighed and hid her face in her hands. “This is...different.”

“Different how?”

“It’s-” Oh, god. She was going to die. Right here, right now. “It’s about...men.”

She looked up, and RJ looked like he just ate a lemon. “What do you mean it’s about men?”

“You know…men. And feelings towards men.”

His face immediately hardened. “Which man.”

She felt herself blush and looked down at her hands again. “Something tells me you already know which man…”

He threw his hands in the air, “Oh, for god’s sake, Rosie!” She shushed him and he put a hand on his forehead. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“RJ! The swearing!”

He held up one finger, “No, this constitutes swearing, Rosie. How could...After everything-”

“I know! I know. It’s just...something...happened. And I-”

The vein in his forehead suddenly made an appearance and he balled his hands into fists, “He didn’t come on to you, did he? Oh, I knew it. Those little wrestling matches on the beach…” He had gotten up and was pacing the length of the couch, “I was this close to blowing his brains out today. This close! He’s gonna really hurt you tossing you around like that, and now he’s-”

“RJ! He didn’t- He didn’t do anything to me. I-” She shook her head. “It was me.”

He stopped, staring at her with his brow furrowed. “You didn’t.”

“Nothing happened!”

“Why?! Why on earth?!”

“I don’t know! Or I do know, or-” She sighed. “Oh, shit.”

“So…” RJ finally sat back down, “You have...feelings...for...oh, please don’t make me say it.”

She thought for a moment. Trying to center her brain on that specific question. Did she?

She looked up into Mac’s concerned face and nodded.

“Oh, Rosie…”

“But I don’t think…” She felt tears at the back of her eyes and blinked, confused as to why they were even there, “He doesn’t feel that way. Towards me, I mean.”

She blushed as Mac squinted at her. “What makes you think that?”

“Well he...There was just-” She shook her head and hid her face in her hands, “Oh, Bobby, I can’t!”

He sighed. “You wanted to talk to _me,_ remember? I mean, I have a kid you know. I could use the sleep.”

“I know! I know. I'm sorry. It's just-” She took a breath, attempting to start at the beginning, “Well, we were on the bed, and-”

“You were in _bed together??_ ”

“No! Not _in_ bed together, we were just _on_ the bed together, and I was- Well I was, petting him? I suppose?”

“What in God’s name-”

“Just, don’t stop me or I won’t finish!”

“That’s what she said.”

“RJ!”

He held up his hands, chuckling slightly, “Sorry, sorry. So, you’re petting a strange man in bed.”

“ _On_ the bed, and he’s not strange.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Then, well things got...different, and I sort of...ended up kinda in his lap.”

“Rosie!”

“You weren’t there! It was confusing! And it was hot and he was just wearing this tank top and he’s...well he’s quite well built, you know-”

“Blegh. Please stop.”

“And I think I tried to kiss him.”

He frowned. “Uh, you think?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure. I told you it was confusing.”

“But?”

“But...He stopped me.”

RJ stared, incredulous. “He stopped you?”

She nodded. “He said it was getting late. At eight o’clock.”

He sighed. “Oh, jeez.”

“I guess- I guess before I just didn’t understand why I was upset about that.” 

He shook his head. “Rosie. You know how I feel about this guy-”

“I know, but you just don’t know him!”

“Nobody does!”

“I know he cares about me. I don’t think I really need to know anything else.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I do. Even if he doesn’t care about me...in that way.”

Mac folded his arms, “I mean...If he’s seen you dressed like _that_ and hasn’t made a move…”

She blushed, “Oh, stop it.”

“Stop what? Please. In the nightgown? Come on, you’re cute as a button.”

“Yeah, well, I was wearing even less then, so I don’t think he’s all that interested.”

RJ frowned thoughtfully. “Huh. I didn’t think girls that look like you had unrequited crushes. Maybe he likes dudes.”

Rosie looked up, finally asking the question that had been eating her alive.

“Am I a terrible person?”

“What? No!”

“No, but, so soon after...everything.”

He leaned forward and placed a hand over her own. “Rosie. No. You’re not terrible for having feelings for another man.” He smiled. “You _are_ terrible for having feelings for Deacon, though.”

She laughed. “Thank you, Bobby. I can always count on you.”

RJ smiled softly. “That’s what I’m here for. Now get out of my house and go to bed.”

She giggled and got out of her seat, making her way to the door. RJ opened it for her and she stepped out onto the porch.

“Rosie?”

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t- You don’t sleep in the same bed, do you?”

She looked down at her sneakers. “Uh...”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“It just happened! He’s- He's very good with hair!”

“What does that even mean?”

She was already jogging towards the house, “Going to bed now, bye bye!”

She saw Mac throw his hands in the air and retreat back inside and she laughed, running until she reached the porch. She stopped and slipped off her shoes before coming inside, shushing Dogmeat again and tiptoeing up the stairs.

She slipped through the bedroom door and dropped her sneakers. She padded over and slipped off her cardigan, draping it on the bed frame and slightly shivering in the cold air.

“Welcome back.”

She froze. Fuck. Did he never sleep?

“I- Uh…” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What was she supposed to say?

“You cold?”

Oh, now she was really confused. “A little.”

“I know a way to fix that.”

Oh, did he now? He beckoned her forward with two fingers and she followed, feeling the pull of him like a planet around the sun. She crawled onto the bed, and he opened his arm. Oh. Okay.

She settled underneath his arm, her head on his chest and a cautious hand on his stomach. She was still confused. This was a good thing, right? It meant there was no tension, no strange awkwardness. Yet she was...disappointed? 

If she was bolder…

“Deacon?”

“Hm?”

She paused. He was right there. She loved platonic cuddling as much as the next guy but, this had to be something...right?

But then she thought of today. Of a hand on her wrist and an awkward lie. She couldn’t. That wasn’t how this...was. That wasn't what he wanted.

She sighed and snuggled closer.

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close, yet so far!
> 
> As always, please tell me what you think! <3


	16. My Fun Meter Is Pegged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. Sorry this took so long! I've started working again, and this chapter really gave me grief, lol.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! <3

Rosie stood in front of the Greentech building, trying to center her nervous energy. They had followed the trail all the way from the old CIT building. She was wearing her flight suit, as it was probably still the most protective item of clothing she owned. Deacon said he was working on making her a slip with ballistic weave though, so she could still wear all her silly dresses and be practically bulletproof. Codsworth had managed to get the blood out of the suit, and there was a small patch where he had repaired the gash that Kellogg’s knife had left. Deacon had given her his big leather motorcycle jacket, as he had opted for the traditional railroad khaki number, armor plating and all. The jacket hung on her, of course, but once she had the sleeves rolled up to her wrists, it made her feel secure. Safe.

Even if she was on a hunt for something literally manufactured to kill.

“This must be the spot, huh? Courser central.”

Deacon spoke next to her and she nodded. The rapid beeps coming from her pipboy confirmed that yes, this was indeed the place. She took a deep breath.

“The hunter becomes the hunted.”

Deacon put a hand over his heart. “How poetic. It may be a bloody, violent, sinister poem, but it slays me nonetheless.”

She smiled. He obviously sensed her anxiety, telling silly jokes and making quips since they got back from the Glowing Sea. It should be getting on her nerves by now, but to tell the truth? She needed it. Seeing ghouls horribly deformed and leaking glowing puss, having to talk to a tribe of cultists that actually _worshiped_ radiation, and then finding Virgil in the throws of FEV virus had made her so incredibly distraught. Over and done with the world. It felt like the bomb had hit her all over again, and she was forced to watch the aftermath of the decisions of her fellow man, no matter how much she wanted to look away. Walking through that irradiated hell had chipped away at her faith in the good of humanity, and she needed something to lighten her up. Restore her.

Or maybe she just needed something to shoot.

She tightened her grip on her rifle. “Let’s kill a fucking courser.”

The inside of the building had dissolved into madness. The courser had ripped through the gunners in what seemed like the messiest and most destructive way possible, and there were screams and gunshots coming from the levels above them, as her and Deacon charged through the buildings' various hallways, following the blue laser fire as it flashed through the different windows. 

Deacon hollered as he shot down a gunner charging at them from a corner bathroom. 

“Institute sure makes them fast, don’t they?”

Rosie huffed as she wiped off the small cut on her brow that she had sustained from a particularly vicious gunner on the first floor. “Superhuman, more like. Do those Institute assholes ever take a day off?”

Apparently, no, those Institute assholes did not. Just like Deacon had told her, the courser was an absolute killing machine, mowing through gunners like it was absolutely nothing. Until suddenly, all gunfire ceased.

Rosie paused and looked around, finding Deacon looking just as confused as she was. 

“Maybe they stopped for tea.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Potty break?”

She laughed, “I don’t think that’s it either."

They cautiously continued until finally they reached a room littered with carnage and gunner corpses, with an elevator on the far wall. Rosie looked at Deacon and he nodded. Gone up the elevator, then.

Rosie jammed a finger on the call button and tapped her foot, impatient. This was nothing like when she was up against Kellogg. Then, in the belly of Fort Hagen, she had been scattered and emotional. Lethal maybe, but sloppy. Now, though? She felt focused. Cold and calculating. She felt like she was flying again, her body tense and ready to fire at a red Chinese bandit. She felt like a soldier.

Deacon hummed cheerfully as the elevator went up, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Despite his casual demeanor, his hands were combat ready, clutching his rifle.

“You look different.”

She started slightly at his sudden observation. “Hm?”

“You look different. Now. You look like a fighter.” He gave her a small smile. “Finally believe you were a badass pilot.”

She smirked. “I dunno why you’re speaking in the past tense, sugar. I’m still a badass pilot.”

He smiled and shifted a little in his jacket. “I feel like, weirdly proud of you right now.” He wiped a few non-existent tears from his eyes, “Like you’re all grown up.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. A genuine, complimentary sentiment, even if it was followed by something silly. He had been doing that these past couple days. Ever since their little...incident. Saying something genuinely kind, and then following it with a joke to break the inevitable tension that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Maybe it was just was his odd way of apologizing. Not that he really needed to apologize, of course.

She heard his soft chuckle as the elevator dinged open. Hm. No gunfire here either. A deep, flat voice was speaking a few levels above them though, on a large platform. Rosie couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. 

She looked at Deacon, and he nodded his head toward a small staircase, a finger over his lips. She nodded in response and they both silently worked up the stairs. This was the plan. Catch the courser by surprise. No skillful, well placed headshots allowed if they wanted to get that chip intact. And Virgil had explicitly stated that it needed to be intact. So Deacon was acting as the silent assassin while Rosie played the loud, flashy, arrogant bait. She grinned. Perfect for her, really.

Deacon grabbed her by the hand and stopped her as a quivering voice echoed from the doorway in front of them.

“I- I don’t know the password! I’m telling the truth!”

The man sounded like he was close to tears, and she jumped a bit as she heard the discharge of laser fire. Deacon squeezed her hand. Time to go.

Rosie strutted into the room just as a man with long black hair and a matching leather coat, their courser, was threatening the other gunner he had taken prisoner, bound on the cold metal floor. Just two left alive for questioning? These coursers were pretty damn confident.

When the courser spoke, it was flat and emotionless.”All he had to do was tell me the password. Now are you going to cooperate or am I…” 

He trailed off and tilted his head, sensing Rosie’s presence. He turned with a slightly dramatic flourish, and stared her down, his face flat and his plastic rifle raised.

“You. You’ve been following me.”

Rosie gave her cheekiest grin as the synth continued.

“Are you here for the synth?”

Her brain perked up at that. Then she realized of course there’s a synth here, that's why coursers were dispatched, right?

Rosie smirked, smug and impish. “Actually, I’m here to make a delivery! One large pepperoni and a calzone, name is ‘Fuck you.’”

She watched the courser’s brow wrinkled in confusion and grinned. “So you’re...not here for the synth?”

She cocked an eyebrow, channeling prewar Rosie, brash, swaggering fighter pilot.

“Gee, you’re slow. I’m here for you, slick. Word around town is you’ve got a big shiny chip in your noggin. I want it, and I think I’ll have it.”

_Okay, let’s go, Deacon. It’s showtime._

The synth sneered and raised his rifle. “You’ll die like the rest of them.”

Suddenly he was knocked off balance by an invisible force, his torso jerking backwards as if tugged by an unseen puppet master. Deacon, cloaked by a stealth boy, had gotten an arm around his neck.

Rosie took her shot, straight to the synth’s kneecap. It landed with a sickening crack, and he crumpled, losing the support of his left leg. She ducked behind a metal crate as the courser let out a strangled yell and fell, Deacon shimmering into view, one arm around the synth’s neck and the other forcing a combat knife into the man’s back. The courser used an elbow to force Deacon backwards, twisting out of his grip despite the leaking wound near his hip and his useless left leg. Rosie took another shot that just brushed his shoulder and grinned as the synth jerked his head around, as if he’d forgotten about her. Serves him right. They weren’t your regular run of the mill wastelanders, huh?

Deacon tackled the synth until he was on his back, flashing his blade again. The courser shouted in anguish and bashed Deacon’s face with the butt of his plastic rifle, sending his head flying backwards with a loud snapping noise. Nose broken. Anxiety surged through her, and she wanted to charge forward and help, but stopped herself. This was the plan. He had told her to leave the close quarters fighting to him, while she acted as the distractor, but it became harder and harder to follow directions as she watched blood start to pour dark and fast from Deacon’s nose.

She also couldn’t get a clear shot with them both on the ground like this. She ducked out from behind her cover and fired a shot at the metal grate behind them, hoping to cause some sort of distraction. Deacon took his chance, taking advantage of the fact that the synth couldn’t get up, and grabbed him by the hair as he turned in the direction of Rosie’s bullet. She watched as Deacon drew his blade across the man’s throat, almost too fast to catch, and blood spilled out onto shiny black leather and began to drip onto the floor. The courser convulsed, spluttered, and went limp underneath him.

They had won.

Rosie dashed over as Deacon clumsily clambered off of the synth’s corpse. Blood was still pouring from his nose as she fished a handkerchief out of her knapsack.

“Holy shit! He really got you, didn’t he?”

He winced away from her touch as she tried to clean his bloody face. “You should see the other guy.” He hissed in pain as he tried to smile, and Rosie put her hands on her hips.

“You have to let me clean it.”

“Psh. Just jam a stimpak in there. Oh, wait, you can’t reach.”

She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “You can’t use a stimpak if the bone’s not set, genius. You haven’t noticed your nose is crooked?”

She watched him frown and gingerly feel the bridge of his nose, her irritation melting away as he sucked in a breath and unconsciously jerked his hand away.

“Oh, dear. Just, let me- I have some antiseptic in here…”

She rifled through her knapsack, searching for the little jar, as a woman's voice rang feebly from behind a set of metal blinds.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

She stared up at Deacon, who shrugged. She set her bag on the floor and cautiously stepped over to the blinds.

“Yes, we’re still here…” She finally made the connection in her brain, “Are...are you the synth?”

A pair of brown eyes peeked out at Rosie from between the metal slats. “I- I just need to get out of here.”

Rosie nodded. Smart girl, dodging that question. “Okay, then let’s get you out.” She looked around, seeing a security door with an attached terminal. “That’s what he was looking for, wasn’t it? The password to get that door open?”

The girl furiously nodded. “Yes, yes it’s in that toolbox under the stairs. I saw them stash it. Please hurry.”

Her voice was turning desperate, but Deacon had already fished through the toolbox, waltzing over to the terminal and plugging in a password from a small slip of paper. The metal door slid open, and the girl fearfully stepped out, her hands up.

“I- I don’t want any trouble…”

Rosie gave a comforting smile, “Don’t worry, we’re not- We help people like you.” She glanced at Deacon, who stayed silent, his arms folded as he leaned against a wall. “You are a synth, right?”

The girl nodded. “My- My designation is K1-98, but...I prefer Jenny.”

Rosie smiled and took a moment to look her over. She was dreadfully dirty, so much so that Rosie couldn’t tell if her hair was actually a mousy brown or if it was just caked in dirt. She was wearing a men’s shirt that was so big it went down to her thighs, and her baggy trousers were torn and bloody in the knees. Rosie felt her anger grow as her eyes fell on her bloody knuckles and the marks around the girls wrists.

“Jenny, did they hurt you?”

She shrugged. “Nothing serious. They roughed me up a few times, weren’t very kind but…” Her face turned sinister, “Where’s the other one? The one Z2-47 left alive.”

Deacon had transformed into someone new in front of the girl, someone nonchalant and slightly sour, and he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s hiding on the other side of that staircase. Thinks we forgot about him.”

Whoops. Actually, Rosie _did_ forget about him. Jenny knelt and retrieved a pistol from a gunner corpse, just as a commotion came from behind the staircase. The previously forgotten about gunner dashed across the room, his hands still bound behind his back, making a mad dash for the exit. He only got about halfway, however, before he crumpled to the ground with a large bang. Jenny stood between them, a smoking gun in her hands and a stony look on her face.

Hot damn. Rosie felt a light-bulb go off in her brain. 

“Gee, that was awfully impressive.”

Jenny gave her a sheepish grin. “Thanks. I found out I was pretty good at it when I...you know, got out here. I totally would’ve outrun Z2 if these assholes hadn’t caught me by surprise.”

“Well, if you need anything-”

She shook her head furiously, “No. I’m sorry, but if I’m gonna survive out here I...I need to figure out how to get by on my own.”

Rosie shrugged, trying to hide her disappointment. “Understandable...I’d just go north out of the Commonwealth if I were you. There’s a place called Sanctuary Hills, right by the border, go through there and you can resupply before leaving.”

Jenny nodded. “Okay. Maybe I will. Thanks.” She fidgeted. “I’m gonna...go out the front way. See if I can grab any supplies...Bye now.”

And with that she dashed off. Quiet as a mouse.

Deacon cleared his throat, and she turned to him as he frowned. “I know what you’re doing, you know.”

She smirked. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raised an eyebrow and spoke to her in what Rosie had coined as his ‘scolding parent’ voice. “You know it’s literally one hundred percent safer for her to leave the Commonwealth, right?”

“Glory stayed! Glory stayed, _and_ she’s in the Railroad. That’s double dangerous.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his forehead. She chuckled. Even more paternal. 

“But Glory is...Glory. And this...well, I wasn’t even on board with her joining either, so your point here is kind of-”

She gasped, “You were _against_ having Glory in the Railroad?”

“Not exactly, I was...It was about other things. We have a job to do here, you know.”

“How could you possibly want to reject _Glory?_ ”

“Look, we can talk about your hopeless little crush at the sleepover, Rosie, but first can we get what we came here for?”

She squealed and knelt down beside him as he bent over the courser’s skull. “Ooh, a sleepover! We can do mani-pedis, read magazines...Oh! Make cosmos!”

“Rosie?”

“Hm?”

He flipped the corpse over and drew his knife across the back of its skull, making a small slit near the base of the coursers neck. “Shut the fuck up.”

She giggled and watched him work, wondering if he knew how easy it was to get a reaction out of him, or if he was just doing it because he knew she found it entertaining.

His hands were steady as he expertly made another incision perpendicular to the first, exposing a small, round chip embedded in the coursers skull. Rosie hummed in approval as he turned the chip and removed it with a small click.

“You’ve done this before.”

He reached out an empty hand and she dug out the small jewelry box from her backpack. “Once. Maybe twice.” She held out the jewelry box and he dropped the chip in, “Easier than just taking the whole head to HQ.”

She grimaced, “Gross! Seriously?”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously.” He looked down at his bloodied hand, “You still got that rag?”

She placed the jewelry box in her bag, and then pulled out the bottle of antiseptic, soaking the hanky from her jacket pocket with it. “Face first.”

“Rosie, it’s fine-”

“Nuh uh. You’ve already got bruises forming, honey. I’m not about to let you ignore it until it gets worse.”

He sighed and she crawled over, holding his chin and carefully cleaning the blood off of his face. He tried to hide his winces, but she saw the muscle near his eye twitching. She gently moved the rag down to his bloodied chin and frowned. Goodness. He must’ve had it in his mouth, too.

She scooted closer, ever so slightly, and the strange new tension entered the room again as she dabbed the blood from his mouth. She realized she was basically in his lap, straddling his right thigh, and felt her cheeks grow red. Oh, boy. Not this again.

She tried to focus on cleaning him up, but even that became difficult as he slowly opened his mouth so she could fully wash the blood from his lips. She faltered slightly and she knew he caught it. 

“I...I don’t want to get hydrogen peroxide in your mouth. That’s-” She shook her head and focused on the small horizontal gash on the bridge of his nose, “Uh...This is gonna hurt a little.”

She soaked the hanky again and pressed down, Deacon finally allowing a small strangled sound to escape him. She smiled softly, “Sorry.”

“Yep. Cool. No hard feelings.”

She watched the tension in his neck jump and sincerely thought otherwise. She finally released the pressure on his nose and handed him the bloodied handkerchief for his hands. Now he was clean, but she still had to set the bone back in place.

Okay. This was fine. She’d just do what that nurse in the emergency room did when she dislocated her shoulder.

“Hey, Deacon? What’s your favorite color?”

He frowned. “You already-” He cut himself off with a startled yell as she snapped the bone back into place with a small click. “Fuck, Rosie!”

She winced as he held his hands over his face. “I know! I’m sorry! I just thought it might be better if you weren’t expecting it…” He gingerly felt the bridge of his now straight nose and she looked up at him, feeling slightly guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s...fine. Great idea. Quick and painless. Minus the painless part.”

“I could give you a stimpak, if you want. For the bruising?”

He gave her a smile that she could tell was slightly painful. “Nah, don’t worry about it, sweetheart. This old man can take a few hits.”

She smiled, letting the warm feeling that always seemed to accompany his genuine smiles fill her, and begrudgingly moved away from him, rising and slinging her bag over one shoulder.

“Well, should we get our precious cargo to HQ?”

Deacon got to his feet and adjusted his coat. “Yeah, we should. We should get the courser chip there, too.”

She laughed, wondering if that was feigned outrageous self-importance or a sweet little joke. Deacon smiled down at her and ruffled her hair.

“One step closer, Blondie.”

She nodded. “One step closer.”

~

"I've drawn up schematics for you. Now, like I said, this isn't my area of expertise. I was bioscience, not advanced systems or anything like that..."

Deacon sighed and took the blueprints from Virgil's over-sized, slightly trembling hand. Rosie hadn't even registered the documents, she was just staring straight ahead, her eyes glazed over and her face slack. He had told her to wait, that she needed to rest before they went back into the Glowing Sea, but she just got all huffy, shouting from the shed she was changing in that she was tired of wasting time. Now she wasn't even listening, just staring into space. Irritating.

Virgil's face contorted into a comical look of confusion. "Is she...okay?"

He shrugged. "Long day."

"Yes...well, everything should be there." He spoke a little bit louder towards Rosie, rousing her out of comatose, "That should get you in. But..."

Deacon frowned. "But, what?"

"Well...It's- I mean without the Institute's resources, it really can't be..." He let out a heavy sigh that read more as a growl, "It's highly unstable. There's a chance it will just scramble your molecules. Not put you back together right. Or just vaporize you. I mean there's always that chance with a molecular relay, even inside the Institute, but-"

Rosie stirred. "So it'll get me in?"

Virgil winced. "Most likely."

"Then that's all I need. Stop spouting all that other bullshit."

Virgil lifted his chin, which was an absurd gesture for someone with the face of a super mutant, "I'm just letting you know the risks. That's all. I...I do want you to make it in you know. Not just...Not just because of the serum."

Rose tilted her head, staring up at him with wide, sad eyes.

"That's really sweet, Virgil. I'm going to help you, too. Because I want to."

Deacon heard the tears in her voice and decided the party was over. "Thanks, Virgil. You're a peach. We'll be in touch."

He shuffled Rosie out of Virgil's rocky lab as he called out from behind them. "Yes, well, good luck..."

Deacon tried to ignore the dread lacing Virgil's voice as he put his helmet on, Rosie just stood there, dazed, and he waved a hand in front of her face, feeling his irritation grow.

"Earth to Rosie. Helmet on, please."

She lifted the helmet over her head and secured it with a click, her face still blank. They started out of the cave, Deacon still half afraid she would just come to a stop behind him. She whined as they reached the stormy green exterior.

Deacon rolled his eyes. "Great. Getting out of here with you is gonna be fun. Like walking around with a bum leg."

"Gee, thanks."

He heard tears again and sighed. "Someone needs a nap."

"Fuck you."

He just barely heard her mumble it under her breath, and for some reason it made anger spark in his stomach. He didn't look back at her as he walked out of the cave. "Many have tried, baby. Many have tried."

They made it out of the Glowing Sea in sullen silence, with Rosie grumpily pouting, and not in a cute way. He hit the release on his helmet when they reached the landmark shed and he heard her Geiger counter finally stop clicking, and turned to face her. She had trailed behind him the entire way, only barely covering up her sloppy tiredness to avoid the nastiest of the Glowing Sea.

Her helmet was on the ground, as if she'd tossed it, and she stood there with her arms folded. Like a fucking child. 

"You gonna change?"

Nothing.

He shrugged. "Fine. Me first then."

He slammed the door of the shed a bit harder than he should have and stripped out of the stupid hazmat suit. He had told her, hadn't he? It wasn't his fault she hadn't slept in...twenty-six hours. He shoved on his jeans and reached for the armored jacket. Now she was all pissy. Shit, he should've just strangled her to sleep or something. Saved himself the trouble. Although the way she was acting right now, he might still have the opportunity to explore that option.

He left the shed, finding Rosie exactly where he left her.

"You gonna stand there all day?"

She huffed and spoke under her breath, "Waiting on you, asshole."

"Look, grumpy-pants, nobody told you to stay up past your bedtime, in fact, I believe a certain dashing gentleman told you-"

"Yeah, well I don't have to do exactly what you tell me to do! And furthermore, no one told _you_ that you had to be such an insufferable jackass all the time! So, there!"

She slammed the rickety shed door and Deacon laughed despite his irritation. Good god. What a pain in the ass.

A cute pain in the ass, but still.

Not even a minute had passed before she slowly opened the shed door, back in her jumpsuit with tears streaming down her face and his jacket in her hands. Oh, right. That's where he left it.

"I'm sorry."

Ah shit. Pulling this crap again. The whole 'I know I've been a total menace to be around but now I'm gonna cry and make adorable faces until you forgive me' game. A game Deacon did _not_ like because she always won.

"Don't worry about it, Blondie. You're tired."

She shook her head, a few choking sobs escaping her mouth. "But I was just being mean! You're not an insufferable jackass!"

Oh, we were _crying,_ crying over this. Damn, okay. "Now I know you need to go to sleep, baby. You're just talking crazy."

He gave her a tomcat grin, but to no avail. She slid down the side of the shed onto the ground, loudly and slightly childishly crying. He frowned. Over tired Rosie was no fun at all.

He knelt down in front of her as she hiccuped. "Rosie, it really doesn't matter."

"It does matter, though! Everything matters! People should be nicer, they-"

She was cut off by small sobs and he sighed. This kept happening. She'd be fine for days and then break down over something stupid, except, it wasn't about that stupid thing, it was about a million other stupid things she'd let fester. Then she'd fall apart and he'd have to figure out why. Sometimes the best way was to come right out and ask.

"Rosie, what are you crying about, sweetheart?"

She buried her face in her arms, her voice coming out muffled, "I don't know!"

"I think I know." She sniffed and raised her head, and he brushed the hair out of her face. "You're tired, huh?" She nodded. "And we've had a very long day, and the Glowing Sea is literally the epitome of human grossness. It sucks. Like it sucks so much ass." He finally got a small laugh and he leaned in close, "And you've got a stolen kid, who we're so close to getting back to you, but it still feels really fucking far away." She nodded tearfully and fiddled with the laces on her boots. Deacon smiled and pinched her nose, standing and reaching a hand out to help her up. "So let's get you out of here, yeah?"

She sniffed and took his hand, "Yes, please."

He gave her a smile and his eyes fell on his motorcycle jacket, still clutched in her right hand. He tugged at the collar. "Put that on. I like seeing you in it."

She gave him a tearful smile and slipped on the jacket, _his_ jacket, and he chuckled. Something about seeing her in his clothes set off a very territorial instinct in his brain. A very stupid, idiot man instinct, but fuck it, it couldn't be helped. Except it totally could've been helped, and he literally had insisted she wear it for this exact reason. Feed the jealous little monster in the back of his brain.

He picked up their helmets and hit the telescopic button on the side to collapse them, shoving them and the hazmat suits into Rosie's backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He watched Rosie search the pockets of his jacket and smirked.

"Inside pocket, gorgeous."

She looked up, wide eyed. "There's a pocket on the inside?!"

"Mhm."

He watched her pull the raggedy box from the interior pocket and grinned, putting a cigarette between her teeth and looking up expectantly. He rolled his eyes, fishing the lighter from his back pocket and holding it out.

She lit her cigarette and sighed, exhaling a swirl of smoke as she did. "We need to get to HQ. I'm gonna have to enlist some help to get this thing built."

Oh, they were already going to HQ. It was the closest place with a mattress he could toss her in. "Not putting your minutemen on it?"

She yawned. "I am, a select few of them, anyway, but I want the Railroad to be involved." She smiled wistfully, "I think Tom and Sturges would make a wonderful team, don't you?"

Absolutely not. "Maybe."

She smiled. "I think you'll like him. He looks tough, but he's a total teddy bear." 

Deacon hadn't met Sturges yet, but he didn't really need to meet him to know this whole plan...may not work out like she thought it would. Tinker Tom was not exactly the collaborative type. Rosie wrinkled her nose as she took another drag from her cigarette. "Damn. I miss cloves."

"They still make them. They're probably kinda...different from what you remember, though."

She unsuccessfully hid yet another yawn, "They're still sweet though, right?"

"Uh...yeah." They also put some freaky shit in it that makes your whole mouth go numb and tingly for some reason, but maybe he'd let that be a fun little surprise. 

He heard her sigh as she hooked an arm through his. "This thing better fucking work."

A stormy sense of doom fell over him, and he felt it start to burn a hole in the pit of his stomach.

"Of course it'll work. Don't even worry about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another weird time jump, I know. It's mostly because I wrote part of a chapter detailing their jaunt through the glowing sea, and hated it immensely. Woohoo! If this isn't your favorite chapter, don't worry, it isn't mine either, and some much better stuff to come. Pinky Promise! ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	17. Merged Plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merged Plot - The point at which aircraft come into contact, after having been vectored toward each other by radar control.

Turns out, Deacon had met Sturges.

Only he wasn’t Sturges when he met him.

It was a hell of a long time ago, but he remembered. It was a special case. Back then, before Patriot had ever joined the party, they usually found synths wandering lost and confused through the wasteland. Not this time, though. This particular synth had been looking for them.

He had refused a memory wipe, too. Said the scientist that helped him escape gave him a gift, and he wasn’t going to just give it away. Apparently he’d been assigned to some high tech assistance position, and some engineer got attached to him. Taught him everything he knew and then, eventually, helped him escape.

Pinky had been pretty upset about it. Kept ranting and raving about how the protocol was a full wipe, but no one really wanted to say no to the six foot five goliath sitting in their HQ. So, the strange man had asked a few questions, gave a couple thanks, and left. No disguise, no memory wipe, nothing. That was a year or two before Pinky had tossed Deacon out. Fat bastard.

Deacon had assumed he would split and head for somewhere safer. Unpursued. Probably died pretty quickly, judging by the whole devil may care attitude.

But here he was, in the Sanctuary scrap yard, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he listened intently to whatever the fuck Tinker Tom was talking about. He looked different now, with his hair all gelled back and his arms covered in various tattoos, but it was definitely him. He could tell Struges recognized him too, when they shook hands. Rosie had stood, peppy and oblivious between them as Sturges called him ‘sunglasses.’ That made him absolutely sure.

He had been watching him since they got here. Luckily, he wasn’t the only one staring.

“Monsieur Sturges is quite the great mind, is he not?”

Curie was sitting in the bed of a long rusted truck, her chin resting in her hand as she stared, mooney-eyed. Deacon smirked, watching her sigh as Sturges lifted a box of spare parts, bringing it to the table where Rosie and Tom were studying schematics.

He spoke to her without taking his eyes from the mechanic. “Do I sense a little crush, Curie mon chéri?”

She blushed and stuttered, “I most certainly- I simply...take joy in seeing mankind still values pursuits of the mind! C'est tout!”

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Curie. I’m sure you’re only staring at his brain…”

He gave his best shit-eating grin and waited for a reaction, but she seemed to think the better of it and fell sulkily silent. Aw, poor thing didn’t like being caught. Disappointing.

Now, if he’d said something like that to Rosie…

He and Curie sat there until sundown, watching the three of them work. Watching Rosie flex her engineering muscle gave him that strange feeling in his chest again. Pride mixed with something else. What a smart cookie. He laughed pitifully to himself when he realized he and Curie were in the same boat, staring like lovestruck teenagers. Fuck, he really had gotten soft.

Struges looked up at the sky and sucked his teeth. “Looks like we’re plum out of daylight. Think it’s about time we check out, huh?”

Rosie peeked her head out from behind a large sheet of graph paper, closely followed by Tinker Tom. “Oh! Well, if you think so, honey. I guess it would be awful hard to work in the dark.”

Tom looked more jittery than usual as he looked around. “Oh, I can’t sleep here, man! This is prime snatching territory we’re in!” He wrung his hands and hissed, “They could be anywhere...anywhere!”

Sturges chuckled. “Don’t you worry, fella. You can bunk with me and the soldiers in the barracks. Ain’t nobody gonna snatch you there.”

Deacon wondered where he’d gotten that accent from. He had wondered when they first met. Picked it up from his Institute friend, maybe?

Tom weighed his options, his eyes dancing from side to side. “Well, fine. I’m not sleeping, though! Too vulnerable.”

Sturges chuckled and led Tom out of the scrapyard. “Goodnight, everybody!” He glanced towards the truck. “Goodnight Curie.” He nodded towards Deacon, “Glasses.”

Deacon responded with a two fingered salute and slid off of the truck bed. Rosie was standing in the middle of the scrapyard, staring out into the distance, a strange expression on her face. He came towards her as Curie made some excuse about research and lots of work to do and dashed off in Sturges’ direction.

“Rosie?”

She jumped slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed him walk up.

“You and Sturges know each other.” It wasn’t a question.

He shrugged. “Sort of.”

She narrowed her eyes, frowning slightly. “You’ve been hiding things from me. More than usual. Coddling me, almost.”

She wasn’t speaking with animosity, more like it was a slightly curious observation. “You know, me and my secrets.”

She pouted and folded her arms. “Do we have to play the game?”

He chuckled. “Sure, but it’ll have to be pretty big to get you that story.”

She immediately perked up, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him towards the big white barn in the distance. “Okie dokie! Let’s see...what to tell…”

She hummed, happily in thought as they walked through the small town. Everybody was winding down for the night. Children were dashing home from the playground as impatient parents waited at their doorsteps, people were putting out milk bottles on their welcome mats, and the night guard was slowly swapping out watch posts with minutemen who had been standing watch all day. Deacon unconsciously smiled, feeling a lump form in his throat. Huh. Weird.

Rosie stopped and gasped at the large barn doors. “Oh! I know!” She turned and grabbed both of his hands, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Promise you won’t tell?”

He smiled warmly down at her. She was wearing his jacket again, but this time over her pink gingham sundress, looking absolutely delicious in the light of the sunset. “Cross my heart.”

“Okay…” She grinned conspiratively as she slid open the barn door, still facing him. She inhaled and spouted out the sentence in one quick breath, “The first time I made out with a boy he got his braces stuck in my hair and I had to literally cut him free.”

Deacon burst out laughing as Rosie’s face reddened and she retreated inside the barn. “Oh, Rosie. Come on, I’m not laughing at you-”

She huffed beside one of the brahmin stalls. “You most certainly are! I was missing a chunk of my hair! It was mortifying!”

“How far did he get?”

She gasped, “Oh, Deacon!”

“Come on, how far did this poor kid get before you had to get an impromptu haircut?”

She looked down at her feet, mumbling. “...Second base.”

He gasped and placed a hand over his heart, scandalized, “Rosie! Think of your reputation! What will the neighbors say?”

She giggled and her face turned wicked. “Aw, I never saw that pansy after that anyway. Figured I was too much trouble, I guess. Even after I wore my special sweater and everything!”

“Psh. He didn’t deserve you.”

“He sure didn’t…” She wiggled restlessly and looked up at him, “So, you and Sturges?”

He grinned. “Oh, him? He’s a synth.”

Her face dropped. “No way.”

“Uh huh. Institute escapee. Met him a few years back.”

She furrowed her brow, “So...was he wiped?”

Deacon shook his head. “Nope. Think he was one of the first not to.”

“Woah. Good for fucking Sturges. That’s badass.” She trailed off and glanced shiftily at the ladder to the upper level of the barn.

He sighed. “What did you do?”

She shot him a mischievous grin. “Why don’t you come up here and find out?”

Rosie had absolutely refused to take up any space in the bunkhouse, so she had set up two bedrolls in the barn loft. She had made it nice, obviously. A few blankets and large quilts, a small wooden chair in the corner, a patterned afghan, little pillows...Feminine touches. Rosie touches.

She shed his jacket, exposing her bare arms and gestured towards the nest she made. "What do you think?"

He grinned. "Adorable. A picture out of Better Homes."

She chuckled slightly and fussed with one of the quilt’s frayed edges. Deacon decided now was the time to get a little nosy.

“So, which one of these houses was yours? Never got the chance to ask last time we were here.”

He knew. He knew exactly which one was hers. It was the whole reason they were sleeping in a barn.

“Oh! It’s uh-” She dodged his eyes. He chuckled. She knew she couldn’t lie to him, but she didn’t want to tell the truth either, “They made it- I made it into the bunkhouse. You know, when I moved out to the island and everything. It just made sense, you know? Sanctuary is safe and all but the island is safer. Secluded. And I thought I was going to find my baby when he was a baby and all, so I figured the safer the better.”

He smiled. Rambling. Typical. 

“Ah. So that’s why you didn’t want to stay there.”

“No, I just didn’t want to take up any room is all! I’m already disturbing everything with this big machine and-”

“Rosie.”

She stopped. Finally looking up at him.

“Yes. Fine. I-” She sighed, running a nervous hand through her hair, “When I’m in that house...It feels like I’m haunting myself. Like I’m an unwanted intruder in my old life. It feels like...The old me and Nate and Shaun still live there, somewhere, and I’m...just playing make believe...” She shook her head and looked away. “I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense.”

He shrugged. “Makes sense to me.” 

“That’s cause you’re crazy.”

He smiled, “I’m just as sane as you are.”

She sat down and scoffed, curled up on her bedroll. “That means you’re crazy.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Rosie spoke up.

“Deacon?”

He looked up, startled by her change of tone. “What’s up?”

“Do you- Do you remember our agreement? Before we went after Kellogg, I mean.”

He nodded, how could he forget? Take care of the kid. No matter what. 

“Well, that still stands. What I’m saying is- I mean...It’s very possible...This machine could kill me.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. He knew this was coming. He had sensed it like you sense a hurricane. “Rosie, I don’t-”

“No, it could and you know that. Virgil said so, Sturges said so, Tinker Tom said so. Even if I do make it-”

“Please-”

“-to the Institute they could very well just shoot me on sight, and you’ll never see me again-”

She was babbling on the floor as he felt his sanity slip away. How could she say these terrible, awful things? His heart strained at his chest as he heard her say it. _You’ll never see me again._

“Rosie-”

“-and I need to know that you know what my wishes are. I need to know the mission won’t die with me-”

The pressure in his chest finally reached a peak and burst as he heard his own voice erupt from his mouth. “Rosie, fuck the mission!”

She looked up, startled.

“What?”

“You-” He ran a hand through his hair, finding himself panting. Out of breath. “You can’t say all this stuff Rosie, I-”

She was standing now, her brow furrowed. “But, it’s true. You know it is. This could be the end for me-”

“No! It can’t be! Because I can’t-” Oh, shit. He can’t what? Fix it? Protect her? He was stupid to think he could in the first place. Pride goeth before the fall. His brain was firing so many things back and forth and he choked on the words in his throat. He was sweating now, and the barn suddenly felt claustrophobic as he struggled to breath. Oh, no. Not this. Not now.

Rosie was standing at the opposite end of the loft, the distance somehow growing between them as the barn constricted around him. When she spoke she sounded fuzzy and far off.

“But that’s the truth of it. I could have my molecules blown apart or be killed by Institute synths and you wouldn’t know! I’d just be gone. Zap. And you’d never see me again.”

_You’d never see me again._ He felt the weight of that crush him, strangle him like a hand around his neck. Oh, fuck. What was he gonna do? The thought of her gone felt like a stab to the gut, it hurt him, that much was true. He’d royally fucked up. He’d gotten soft, let himself get attached, and now look what was happening. He was going to lose her. Because that was how it always happened. The instant you let someone get to you, the minute you let your guard down…

All hell breaks loose.

“Deacon?”

Rosie’s voice was soft and quiet. She was suddenly inches away from his face, and he was sitting on the ground. He didn’t remember either one of those things happening. But there they were. She had changed in front of his eyes again. Going from tough, calculating soldier to gentle, beautiful angel, trying to coax him out of a corner with soft words and doe eyes.

He just didn’t know if he could do it this time.

“Let me see your face, Deacon.”

Icy fear ripped through him and he shook his head. No. He couldn’t. This was already too much. He was already crumbling, he couldn’t strip himself bare and still hold it together.

She placed a hand over his balled up fist. “Please?”

Oh, fuck. He had been reduced to being won over by ‘please.’ One look at her doll face and his heart tugged mercilessly at his brain. The mere thought of it had him chilled to the core, but fuck did he want to do this for her. His arms still refused to move though, despite the begging coming from his heart, so he stayed still, until she ever so cautiously put a hand on his face and he shivered at the contact. She was so soft and warm, like she always was. Her delicate touch slowly traveled up to his glasses and then stopped, waiting for him to protest. He kept his mouth shut, as one side of him screamed for her to stop and the other was begging her to take them off. Rosie frowned, concerned.

“Is this okay?”

Fuck, was it? He didn’t know anymore. His brain was screaming at itself, and he couldn’t focus.

But then he just stared at her. Her halo of golden hair and that gorgeous, sweet face, and he felt the pull of her. The tug of the string around his heart only she seemed to have the other end of.

And he nodded.

She slipped the frames off gently, placing them by his side, still easily in his reach. He blinked in the sudden light, still trying desperately not to hyperventilate. Rosie stared with shock and concern into his eyes, looking even more beautiful without the tint of his glasses, and he felt it. He’d been caught.

She spoke to him, almost barely audible.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

And it was all too much.

He surged forward, wrapping her in a tight embrace and holding his face against the crook of her neck. His whole body was racked by sobs, but he couldn’t remember even starting to cry in the first place. He cradled his body against hers, as she placed a soothing hand on his back, rubbing in small, slow circles. He wrapped his arms tighter around her little frame as she ran her fingers through his hair. Christ, he always forgot how small she was. It made him want to pick her up and carry her in his pocket, safe and protected from the horrible world. Little lamb. His little lamb.

She made a small shushing sound as she rubbed his back. “I’m right here, darling. It’s alright.”

His fear was suddenly drowned out by a warm, fuzzy feeling of adoration. Actually, fuck that. Love. It was drowned out by love. God, he loved her. Every time he looked at her he wanted to give her everything. All of him. Let all the walls and lies and half-truths fall away and give his heart to her for safekeeping. He couldn’t imagine a better place for it. She was safe, and wonderful and beautiful and smart and feisty and she gave him hope. Him! Hope!

She put a hand on his cheek and slowly lifted his head until they were eye to eye, still locked in a tight embrace. She spoke in a low, breathy whisper.

“Are you with me?”

Her words echoed in his brain, filling him with warmth and affection as he put a hand in her hair and looked into her eyes. They were almost touching, now, her breath hot on his face. He watched as her pupils dilated, swallowing her baby blue eyes as they slid down his face and landed on his lips, and he let the tingling feeling in his abdomen take control of his body.

He kissed her. Hard. 

Her lips were soft and warm, and he melted against her as she clung to his shoulders. He felt her small moment of surprise before she reciprocated in full force, clutching at his body like she couldn’t possibly get close enough. He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her mouth-

“Always.”

They caught each other's lips, slightly catching each other's teeth in their desperation, and Rosie let out the tiniest of moans as she opened her mouth for him. He took the invitation, exploring her with his tongue before swirling around her own. Her arms reached around his neck and pulled until she was on her back, her legs wrapped around his waist and her skirt crawling dangerously high, exposing those beautiful legs. He grabbed her thigh, finally feeling the long lusted after flesh in his hand. Rosie gasped, releasing his mouth for a moment and arching her back, ever so slightly grinding against him. He felt slightly heady from her tiny, breathy moans, and he cradled the back of her head as he pressed light, trailing kisses from her cheek all the way down her neck. His lips were directly over her pulse as she shivered.

“Oh god, Deacon.”

He froze, and a pang of guilt ripped through him. No, that wasn’t his name. That was some stupid fucking lie he’d created so he could make believe he was someone else. Run away from the man he actually was. Deacon was an illusion.

What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her. He was some fucked up, twisted con man. A liar. A monster. What was he doing with his hands on her? Bloody, violent hands that should be nowhere near someone so innocent, pure and beautiful... He felt sick. He felt like he ruined fine art, tainted it with his vile poison...Like he was stepping on butterflies, burning flowers with kerosene. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. 

And he couldn’t breathe.

He scrambled out of her arms and pressed himself against the opposite wall, his chest heaving. Rosie was sat on the floor, dazed, her lips swollen and a rash forming on her neck from his stubble. She already had his marks on her. Oh, god. Oh, fuck.

“What-” She looked at him, his back pressed flush against the wall, “Deacon, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Oh, god. No please don’t say sorry, you-” He tried to take a breath, but his lungs still felt constricted and empty, “Please, you have nothing to be sorry for. I should be the one...Fuck. I’m so sorry, Rosie. I’m so sorry.”

She furrowed her brow, sad. “But you have nothing to be sorry for, either.”

“No. You don’t understand. You don’t understand, Rosie, I- I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”

She gave him a sad frown. “You’re not doing anything to me, darling. I _want_ this. I _want_ you-”

“No!” Oh, fuck. This was going horribly wrong. Everything was spinning out of control. “You don’t- I’m not who you think I am, Rosie. I can’t-”

She stood and he flinched, grabbing the wooden chair and putting it between them, his hands gripping the back of it. She looked down at it and her voice shook, tears filling her eyes.

“You’re afraid of me?”

He hung his head and shook it, a fresh wave of hatred and shame washing over him. She thought he was guarding himself. “No, god, not you, Rosie. I- You should be afraid of me.” 

Tears were falling fast down her cheeks. “Well, I’m not. I never will be.”

“Because you don’t know me, Rosie. You would hate me if you did-”

“I couldn’t hate you. Not even if I wanted to.”

“Yes you could. I promise you could-”

“No, Deacon.”

“You don’t even know my real name-”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” She shouted at him, angry tears running down her face as she sobbed, “I’m in love with you! You have to know that!” She ran a hand through her hair as sobs racked her body, “You have to know! With all your observation and- You’re not stupid, Deacon, I-” She sighed. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you.”

Deacon didn’t know he could fall any further into his pit of self-hatred, but he did. He couldn’t believe he’d done this to her. Manipulated her into thinking he was a good person.

“You’re in love with somebody I made up, Rosie. You wouldn’t like me if you knew who I am, or what I’ve done, or-”

“Then tell me! For fuck’s sake!”

“I...” Shit. He what? He hated himself for lying to her but refused to tell the truth? God, he was vile.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t have feelings for me.”

Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, and she was staring him down, even as tears stained her face.

He knew what he had to say. He hated it. He hated himself for it. But he couldn’t let this happen.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “No. I don’t.”

He watched her face break and immediately wanted to fling himself off of the nearest cliff. Just die, finally.

“You don’t what?”

“I-” His voice broke, and tears fell of their own volition. “I don’t love you, Rosie. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I sent...mixed messages, but I- I don’t love you.”

There. The worst lie he’d ever told.

He watched her face distort in pain as she marched slowly forward, and he desperately looked around for an escape route.

“Don’t you fucking move!” She ripped the chair out of his hands and threw it across the room, and he stood against the wall, paralyzed. “I know you, Deacon.” She huffed, “Or whatever your name is. Whether you want to believe it or not, I know you. You can’t lie to me while I can see those.” She pointed to his eyes as her face changed from furious to pitiful, “Why? Why would you say that to me? Do you want to hurt me?”

“Jesus, no! No, that’s exactly what I was trying to-”

“By what? Telling me you don’t love me? By lying to me? Huh? Tell me what’s so wrong with you that I’m not allowed to love you. You owe me that much.”

“Rosie-”

A white hot burst of pain seared from his cheek and he stared. He stared, shocked into silence. She had slapped him.

“Tell me, goddammit! I’m not going to- If you’re going to do this, I get an explanation. Then you can- ” She sighed and sat on a hay bale and balled her hands up in her lap. “Go, on. Please.”

“I...” He took a shaky breath. He had never put it in words, before. Never had to. Saying it felt like ripping his own organs out. So he let it fall out of his mouth like he was heaving it up from his stomach.

“When- When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was...scum. I- I was a bigot. A very, very violent bigot. Ran with a gang at University Point, the UP Deathclaws, and for kicks we’d terrorize anyone we thought was a synth. Anyone.” He kept going, even as he tasted bile at the back of his tongue, “We kept egging each other on, because we were stupid, violent fucking children, and it just…” He took a shuddering breath, “It just kept getting worse. Started with property damage, graduated to some beatdowns, and then...the inevitable…” His voice broke, “A lynching.”

He heard her let out a small gasp and he shook his head, soldiering on despite this terrible feeling burning ulcers in his stomach. “The kid in charge, he- he was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. Looking back...I’m not so sure. Hell, I wasn’t sure at the time either. But I still stood there and watched. Let them string that poor man up. And his eyes...those eyes...haunt me. Bulging. Everytime I close my eyes, I see them-” He choked. It was so much. So much he’d never said. “My poor mother. My poor fucking mother.” His voice was shaking with tears as he remembered her, filled with shame. “She looked at me like she’d never met me before. Those eyes haunt me too. Her eyes. She hated me.”

“She didn’t hate you, Deacon.”

His voice strengthened with conviction as he corrected her, “She did, and I deserved every bit of it. She had always hated the crowd I ran with. So, I turned my back on my ‘brothers,’ broke all contact. Time passed by. I became a farmer if you can believe that.”

“I can.”

He didn’t even have the energy to look at her. He wouldn’t be able to go on once he saw her face. “I found someone. Found someone I didn’t deserve. She was...god...she just _was._ She saw something in me I didn’t even know was there…” He let out a laugh through his tears, “Sound familiar?” He sighed and breathed out her name, “Barbara. She had a smile out of a prewar magazine, big brown eyes, long dark hair. She was gentle. Quiet.” He let out the weakest, most tearful of smiles, “She would’ve loved you. We were trying for kids...but-” Oh, god. It was coming. He usually avoided even thinking about it, blocked it from his mind completely, kept it locked out of sight in the dark, shadowy corners of his brain, and now he was having to pull it out of his body like a bullet in a wound. “It- She...My Barbara...was a synth. She was a synth.” He tried to breath, but he felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, like every memory was a punch in the gut. “I don’t know how they even found out, it- She didn’t know that, I certainly didn’t, but- The Deathclaws they...they found out, and there was...Oh, god there was blood…So much blood...” Sobs overtook him again as Rosie took another shaky gasp, her voice shaking with tears of her own.

“They killed her?”

He could barely talk. “They butchered her! Like an animal! She-” Tears overtook him and he had to stop, waves of grief crashing over him until his ears were ringing. “I killed them. All of them. I don’t remember how, but...I guess I made an impression. The Railroad contacted me, figuring I’d be sympathetic after losing my wife. And...what I did afterwards. But it’s not right. No matter what- No matter what I try to do or what I try to fix or who I try to be...I don’t deserve to be here. I’m a fraud. To my core. I’m everything wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth, fuck!”

He sobbed into his hands, feeling pathetic. He’d never said it all out loud before...And it was all so, so fucking awful…

A small hand rested on his knee and he looked up. Rosie was kneeling in front of him, silently crying.

“Please tell me your name.”

He sniffed. “John. Johnny.” He shook his head, wanting to give the whole truth, “Johnny Dawson.”

She brushed the tears from his face with her hand and gave him a soft smile through her tears. “I love you, Johnny Dawson.”

He froze. He felt like his brain had shorted out. Did she really just say that? Did she not hear anything he just said? He winced, almost in physical pain as he spoke, “Rosie, you don’t have to...I- I don’t deserve you being okay with this.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion then, isn’t it?” She took his hands in her own. “Go ahead. Try it. Try to change my mind.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “What?”

“Try to change my mind. Try to tell me why I shouldn’t love you.” She tilted her head, “Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

He stumbled, still not understanding. “I’m...I’m too old for you.”

“How old are you?”

He thought for a moment. “Uh...Forty. Or I’ll be forty in December.”

She shrugged. “What’s fourteen years? Try again.”

“Rosie-”

“I said try again! Next!”

He stuttered, confused by this strange game, “I’m dangerous. I’m a dangerous person.”

She looked up, jokingly lost in thought. “Hmmm, you don’t scare me, tiger. Plus I find scary men _very_ sexy, so...Next!”

He gave her a small, slightly scolding smile, his face feeling strange and stiff from the dried tears, and she tilted her head. “What? I do! Try again.”

He was smiling now, even if it was slightly cynical. He sniffed. “Uhm...I’m a liar. A dirty rotten liar.”

She swatted a hand at him. “Oh, please. The minute I see those baby blues I know exactly what you’re thinking...most of the time.” She grinned and put her chin on his knee. “You can’t lie to me with those suckers, pal. They’re not even baby blue, are they? Mine are baby blue, yours are like...aqua.”

He chuckled. How was she doing this? Calming him down, washing away all the bad until all that was left was her.

“You’re an angel, and someone like me doesn’t deserve an angel.”

She gave him a strange look, and grabbed his chin, pulling him towards her face. “Do you love me?”

He smiled, feeling dangerous words and sentiments fill his mouth. He knew it was a bad, bad idea to fall in love now, smack dab in the middle of a war with the Institute. Shit, it was a bad idea for a man like him to fall in love, period. But he couldn’t help it. 

That was always his mistake. He fell too hard, too fast.

“Rosie, I loved you the minute I met you. I was kidding myself to think I didn’t.”

She smiled, “That’s all the convincing I need.” She gingerly let his face go, wiggling between his legs and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, “And I’m not an angel, baby…” 

He frowned, “Yes, you are-”

“Nuh uh,” Another kiss to his cheek, “I’m _your_ angel.” His heart soared as she kissed his temple and then made her way back down to his mouth, kissing him once more before sitting and resting her head on his knee. He was overcome with emotion and was shocked when he heard words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Where have you been all my life?”

She giggled, “Well, I was frozen for most of it, Johnny.” She frowned thoughtfully, “Huh. I’ll have to get used to that. Guess I’ll have to say it all the time, huh?” She traced a circle with her pointer finger around his other knee. “I love you, Johnny.”

He smiled, the truth tripping and tumbling out of him, “I love you, Rosie.” She beamed, and he let his head fall back against the wall, gently running a hand through her hair. “I shouldn’t have...I lied to myself for so long.” He sighed, almost finding it painful to tell her the absolute truth, but desperately wanting to anyway. “I should’ve known. When Kellogg...when you were hurt...I totally lost it. Panicked. In front of Nick, too. I tried to kid myself, you know, tell myself it was something else...but I was terrified to lose you. I didn’t know what I’d do.” She moved off of his knee and laid her head against his chest, rubbing soothing hands up and down the sides of his torso as he struggled through his confession. “That scared me. Still does.” 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and whispered a thought, a need, that he never thought he’d dare utter aloud, “Please don’t leave me.”

Her head flew up, her brow furrowed and her lips pouty. “Leave you? Just try getting rid of me!”

He laughed and gave her a squeeze. “Right backatcha, baby. I’m like a stray dog. Give me just a little bit of affection and now you’re stuck with me forever.”

She snuggled back against his chest, giggling, and he wrapped his arms around her. Oh, how long he’d wanted to feel her against him like this. Feeling her breathing and knowing that she wanted to be there, in his arms, feeling safe and loved.

He smiled and spoke into her hair. “You know what I’ve been calling you in my head, sometimes? I mean, what I thought of you when I first met you?”

She wiggled against his chest. “What?”

He whispered against her forehead, “I thought you were a lost lamb crossing my path. My little lamb.” He chuckled, "Then I saw you kick a bunch of ass and thought I might have to reconsider..."

She giggled and he pressed a kiss to her head. “No! I like that.” She snuggled closer, burying her head in his chest, "Your little lamb."

“I’m glad.” He shifted slightly against the hard wooden walls. “Rosie, baby, I don’t want you to think you’re not exactly where I want you, because you are, but I’m an old man you see-”

She laughed, “Almost forty is not old!”

“-and my ancient bones just don’t get along well with sitting on hard wood.”

“Oh!” She popped up and crawled over to her pile of quilts and pillows, “Well, good. I’m sleepy anyway.”

He watched her crawl over and didn’t bother hiding that he was staring at her ass. He didn’t have to now, right? She sat down on her knees and looked over at him.

“You coming, baby?”

Oh, shit. The way she looked right now and that delicious Texan drawl...Hot damn. Yeah, he was coming. He dramatically groaned as he sat up, stretching his back and wincing. She giggled and laid down on her back as he made his way over. How lovely. Seeing her like that, in her pretty pink dress, her hair spread around her head, on her little nest of blankets, in this cozy barn loft. Like a farmer’s wet dream.

He collapsed on top of her and she squealed, giggling under his weight.

“Oh, fuck! Are you trying to kill me?!”

“Mmm. So tired. Think I’m gonna stay right here forever.”

She giggled and coughed dramatically, “I’m being crushed to death!”

“Ugh. Fine.” He wrapped his arms around her and flipped over, rolling on to his back with her on top of him. “Big baby.”

She smiled and relaxed against him, running her hands along his shoulders. “Are you really tired?”

He chuckled. “Always.”

She propped herself up on her forearms on top of him. “I think I could help with that.”

Oh, yes _please._ “Oh, really?”

“Mhm.” She slipped off of his chest and settled next to him, opening her arms. He sighed happily as he rolled into her grasp, his face hidden against her neck and her hands tracing magical patterns across his back. He made a small, happy noise and felt her laugh. 

“You know, it’s kinda hard to do this over flannel…”

He lifted his head and raised one eyebrow. “You trying to get me undressed?”

“Oh, not like that!”

“You really are a fast moving broad, baby.”

She threw her head back and laughed, and a wish was finally granted as he got to press a kiss to her exposed throat as she did it. “I didn’t mean like that, I just meant the fabric’s too thick!” She turned slightly pink, “But if you’re asking, no I certainly wouldn’t mind getting you out of that shirt.”

He rose up and started undoing his buttons, Rosie’s excited wiggle and small lip bite egging him on. He finally stripped to his tank top and tossed his flannel aside. 

Rosie frowned. “Oh.”

“What?”

She blushed. “Oh, uh- Nothing. Nevermind.”

He sighed. So demanding. He slipped off his undershirt as well and she stared at him, her pink face deepening to a dark crimson.

“You- Uh, wow, baby. I mean-” She was staring trance-like at his body, wide eyed and open mouthed, and Deacon felt his ego swell a little. “I knew you were...muscular, but...holy shit.” She finally looked back up to his face. “There’s no way in hell you’re forty.”

He chuckled and settled back into her arms, “Oh, trust me angel, there’s a way.”

She let out a small noise that almost sounded like a purr as his body pressed against hers, and she resumed her petting, just barely ghosting along his skin and then switching to a light pressure with her palms and back again. He groaned. She was right. This was much better when there was nothing in between her soft little hands and his skin. 

He rubbed his face against the delicate skin of her neck and she squeaked. “That tickles!”

He mumbled against her, “What tickles?”

“That!" She squirmed, "Stop it!”

He smiled and took a deep breath, blowing a raspberry against her neck as she cackled and thrashed her legs, a wide grin painting her face.

“I’m supposed to be getting you to sleep!” He nipped slightly against her neck and felt her shiver as she struggled to keep talking, “You- You’re being very naughty.”

He chuckled and he felt her react to the vibration. “So scold me, mistress.”

She gasped, “Deacon!”

He raised his head and gave her a cheeky grin. “Or keep doing your magic, please.”

Her hands started moving across the tight muscles of his shoulders and he hummed happily, dropping his head against her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed. 

He frowned, “Rosie?”

“Hm?”

“You said fourteen years. Our age gap, you said fourteen years.”

“Uh huh.”

He furrowed his brow. “You’re only twenty five.”

He felt her tense up underneath him, even her breath going still. “Well, not exactly...I mean your birthday is in December and...well it’s the twenty-fourth. July twenty-fourth. I’m...It’s my birthday.”

Her birthday. Oh, fuck.

He squeezed her a little tighter and felt some of her tension melt away. “Shit baby, I wish I had known. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I kinda...didn’t want anyone to know.”

Huh. There was something there. Something there that could probably wait until morning, though. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “It’s our little secret. Promise.”

A small laugh danced in her chest. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

He smiled. 

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

He fell asleep within minutes. Falling comfortably into a soft, warm feeling. Not in recent memory had he slept so easily. And there, with Rosie’s gentle presence surrounding him, guarding him, he slept.

There were no nightmares that night. Not with her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it happened! Chapter Seventeen!
> 
> I'm kind of going crazy about it..."Was there enough build up?" "Is it believable?" "Did it come too easy?" "Is it weirdly out of tone?" "Are they gonna like it?"
> 
> Sooo, please let me know what you guys think! <3
> 
> P.S. Hold on to your britches. They may be happy for now, but there is turbulence ahead, my friends. ;)


	18. Boresight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I say this every other chapter, but this one's not my favorite, lol. As I write more I'm starting to get better, but I still sometimes get chunks like this that just don't...vibe? I don't know. It's clunky, but I was running in circles rewriting it. Let me know what you think!

Deacon awoke as something warm and soft squirmed in his arms. He tightened his hold and buried his face deeper into whatever was radiating heat beside him, feeling strange and safe and wonderful next to this awesome soft thing, and he noticed he had no sunglasses on. Weird. No shirt either. That was also weird. The thing in his arms squirmed slightly, and a hand settled on his head as he realized-

_Rosie._

Every muscle in his body tensed as everything from the night before flooded back into his brain. He had spilled. Broken down. He had opened himself up and let her see parts of him that should be dead in the ground, let slip the one thing that he had never told another living soul. Why the fuck was she still here?

Small, soft memories of tearful declarations and soft utterings of “I love you,” flitted through his mind, and then turned sour in the pit of his stomach, filling him with guilt. He hadn’t been able to help himself. Not last night, when panic and terror had ripped through him and he had nearly hyperventilated in this very barnloft, and he was sure, just like he had been sure every time he had one of his...episodes, that he was just gonna drop dead on the spot. He couldn’t resist her in that state. Not when she was saying the words the deepest parts of him had longed to hear her say since, what, a few days after they met? He knew he should’ve bugged out. Handed her to another agent, Glory maybe, and forgot all about her. Or tried to, anyway. She probably never would’ve left his brain, not in a million years, but this? This was so much worse. She had actually fallen for his biggest lie yet. His entire identity. Here, touching her, holding her, he’d never felt more dirty.

He had taken it too far. Now he had to focus on damage control.

The hand in his hair had gone limp. She had fallen back asleep. He could slip away, completely unnoticed. She’d be distraught, sure, but then she’d be off to the Institute. Faced with a million other problems that would soon shove him far from her mind. Maybe he could goad her into some sort of fight, she could shoot at him a couple times, toss him around, and then tell him to get lost. Cry on Macready’s shoulder maybe, that rat bastard. She’d hurt a little and then find someone who actually deserved her. 

Of course, if he had been smart from the very beginning, he wouldn’t have had to hurt her at all. But hey, wasn’t this his usual pattern? Fuck everything up and then run himself ragged trying to salvage what was left. He moved his hands slowly and deliberately to her waist, slowly flipping her onto her back. She was limp as a ragdoll as he moved her, and her hands fell from his neck as she settled onto her quilts. He rose to his knees and she grumbled slightly, a small wrinkle appearing between her brows and he froze. She squirmed and then settled, her face slowly falling slack and Deacon crept over to his pack, throwing on his discarded flannel and shoving his undershirt in with his other things. He chanced another look at Rosie and felt his resolve start to crumble. She looked beautiful lying there, lines of peach colored sunlight painted across the room, and his eyes followed the lines as they glowed across her body. She had turned in her sleep and was curled away from him, the sunlight making her yellow hair look like it was emitting light of its own. He stood there for far too long, watching her breath, slow and steady, and her flesh strain ever so slightly against the tight bodice of her dress as her hands stretched out in front of her. He finally tore his eyes away, shouldering his pack and heading towards the ladder, but right before he made his descent, just as his chest squeezed down on his heart and he admitted to himself he was never going to be able to let her go, he heard her voice from behind him.

“Deacon?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d been caught. He turned slowly and almost winced at the picture she made. She always looked so different in the morning. The bold, brash Rosie was put away, and someone sweet and defenseless took her place, her hair frizzy and sticking out at odd angles, and her eyes now filling with tears as she took in the backpack slung across his shoulder.

“You’re leaving?”

Her voice wobbled and Deacon cursed internally. Please, anything but tears. If she started crying he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave.

“Rosie, listen-”

“Did I...Did I do something wrong? I mean, if I overstepped or anything…”

Her lower lip trembled and Deacon knew his heart was going to win this battle. This wasn’t the plan. She was supposed to blame him for bugging out like the dick he was, not herself. He dropped his pack and scrambled forward onto his knees, wiping away the tears that had managed to fall onto her cheeks. “No, no, baby. Are you crazy? I’m not leaving!” Deacon sighed, he had never met someone who cried so easily. She sniffled and attempted a pathetic smile, and he felt like pure shit. “What kinda man would leave a pretty thing like you, huh? I got something for Tom. I was hoping you wouldn’t wake up till I got back, but you’ve got sonic hearing or something.” Lie. Lie, lie, lie.

He grinned at her and something flashed across her face before she looked down, slightly bashful. “Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry, I...I don’t know what’s got me all upset.” She laughed. “I thought my fella was skippin’ town.” He watched her roll her eyes and shake her head. “Stupid.”

No. Not stupid. Observant and oddly prescient. “Ah, don’t worry. You’ve had plenty of stupid ideas before.”

She punched his arm and laughed, unaware that the man in front of her really was a good-for-nothing villain. “Yeah, like kissing you, fuckface.”

He laughed, and it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. She didn’t know how right she was, and knowing that felt like swallowing nails. He kissed the top of her head and started his descent down the ladder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, blondie. It was only a matter of time before you fell for my masculine wiles.”

~

He dawdled around Sanctuary for a week. Snooping around greenhouses, reading literally everything on Curie’s old terminal in the field hospital until he practically knew every ailment of every citizen that had passed through Sanctuary, just your basic, Deacon snooping shit. A week. That’s all it took for them to build that whole contraption, and Deacon had never felt so twitchy.

She had noticed. He was sure she had. He felt kind of ridiculous going from desperate for any fleeting moment of physical contact to being scared to touch her. But more than ever, he felt like he was living on borrowed time. Tick tock, Deacon. The jig is up. And he had made...a pretty giant mistake. Massive fuck up, more like.

“That holotape is encrypted. That’ll contact our little friend Patriot as well as scanning you-know-who’s terminal network.” Tom shuddered with excitement as he handed Rosie the holotape. “We’re gonna know every dirty little secret they’ve ever put down in writing.”

Rosie fiddled with the plastic disk before putting it in the pocket of her overalls. “Okay, so I just jam it into a terminal?”

Sturges piped up from his seat behind the control board. “Yep. Any terminal. You get into contact with your friend on the inside, and we both get dirt on our mutual enemy. Two birds, one stone, everybody wins.”

Deacon internally winced. Did he like the idea of the Minutemen having that kind of information? Not exactly. But Rosie had made it clear their involvement was non-negotiable, so he kept his reservations to himself. You know, if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all. Weird, he sure as shit never followed that rule before.

Rosie sighed and patted the holo in her pocket. “Alrighty. 0600 hours fellas. Be there or be square.”

Yep. And they needed to have a conversation. He left his position by the gate and put a gentle hand on her arm.

“Hey, angel-face. Let’s take a walk, you and me.”

She looked up, her anxiety evident in the small furrow between her brows. “Oh, okay. Have a good night everyone!” Sturges, Tom and Curie, (who had been lurking with flimsy excuses, french exclamations and heavy sighs all week,) murmured responses and dispersed. Rosie hooked an arm through his and led him towards the small bridge over the river, nearing the vault, and he resisted slightly.

“You wanna go that way?”

She looked up, confused. “Sure, the woods over this way can be real pretty. Besides, you’ve been snooping all over town all week, I know you have.”

The woods. Fuck. Exactly what he was afraid of. He racked through his brain for any excuse, and came up blank as they crossed the bridge over the creek and it whined under their weight. Rosie took the elastic out of her hair and fluffed it out with one hand, frowning. “Curie’s been acting weird.”

“And you think she’s perfectly ordinary and regular the rest of the time?”

She snorted. “Okay, she’s acting weirder than normal. She’s all fidgety. I can’t figure it out.”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What? Oh, don’t tell me. Sir Dickhead has it all figured out.”

He laughed. “Yeah, Sir Dickhead does, actually. You weren’t the one who had to listen to Curie babble about Sturges’ très impressive physique.”

Rosie’s eyes went wide, but not in the happy, sparkly way he expected. “Sturges?”

“Sturges.” He rolled his eyes behind his glasses. “It’s all I’ve heard about for days. She’s got it bad.”

Rosie wrung her hands. “Oh no…”

He frowned. “That’s...an interesting reaction. Thought you would be all sparkles and unicorns over Curie’s new potential paramour.”

She shook her head and took his arm again, leading him further up the hill. “It’s just...Curie is pretty, uh, inexperienced when it comes to things like this-”

So she was worried about her feelings, then. Pesky motherly instinct. “I think you’re a little overly protective, sweetheart. Sturges seems like a real stand up guy and what not-”

“No, he is. That’s not the problem.”

“So, what is?”

She fidgeted a little. “Well...He- He plays for the other team, you know?”

Deacon laughed so hard his whole body shook. “Plays for the other team? Is that how they put it back in your day, old-timer? Just say he likes dick and move on, Rosie.”

She swatted at his arm. “I was trying to be delicate! Poor Curie’s never had her heart broken before.”

“Stop trying to be delicate, sweetheart. Doesn’t suit you.” She scowled and he fought the urge to pull on one of her ringlets and run away. “Besides, Curie doesn’t seem like the move-making type. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He thought for a second. “He seeing anybody?”

“Why, you interested? Should I be jealous?”

Not quite what he meant, but the mischievous little glint in her eye was one of his favorite looks. “Of Sturges? Absolutely. The man’s and Adonis.”

She laughed. “So Mac was half right…”

She slipped out of his arm and turned right at the small chain link gate into the woods. Good. Heading in the right direction. Her nose was turned up as she trotted away. Prodding the bear on purpose. And he was totally gonna take the bait.

“Mac was right, huh? About what?”

She turned, grinning. “He thought you were into dudes because you hadn’t come on to me yet.”

She continued to strut a few paces ahead of him and his face crept into a wicked grin she couldn’t see. Big mistake, Rosie. She may have had a big mouth back in her day, but she was no match for him when it came to shock value. He snidely spoke to the back of her head, “That’s bold words from a guy who I know for a fact has had Hancock’s dick in his mouth.”

Rosie turned bright red and gasped as she whipped around. “Deacon!”

His grin widened. “He’s just jealous, baby, because he knows I give a better blowjob. He knows it.” She covered her ears, squeezed her eyes and started loudly singing, so he yelled over her, “And I totally did come on to you, you’re just obtuse. Like, literally oblivious. It was almost insulting. I’m not just a sparkling personality babe, I have a dick, too.”

“You’re the worst. The absolute worst. How am I supposed to get that image out of my brain?”

“Which image? Mac and Hancock or me giving the best blowjob known to man?”

She tossed her head back and groaned, dragging her feet until she was within arms reach. “I’m dropping you off at the next mutie nest we find. I’ll wrap you in a bow and everything.”

“Please. I’m wasted on supermutants. They have no taste for the finer things in life.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and frowned. “Do you know that you flinch every time I touch you?”

He was...vaguely aware. He just thought he was hiding it better. “Your hands are cold, you walking corpse.”

She shook her head. “Try again.”

“Gotta be fuckin’ pushy, don’t you?” Literally, like, always.

She cocked one eyebrow, “Would it kill you to just say what you’re feeling?”

“Quite possibly, yes.” She didn’t seem entertained in the least, and he ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Not all of us can be the great Rosie Castevet, alright? Just yelling our feelings to the world-”

“Well maybe you should try it sometime. Instead of being some jaded, emotionally constipated asshole.”

Her jaw was tense and her lips were pursed as she looked up at him. He knew this look. She wasn’t going to let this go until he gave her an answer. He knew that. He also knew she was a sucker for the emotional shit.

He schooled his face into his best ‘pitiful puppy dog’ and sighed. “I just don’t wanna lose you, alright? You’re gonna go and get your molecules scrambled and...nobodies ever walked away from that, right? Shit, no one’s ever walked _to_ it either.” Her face softened and he felt a pang of guilt. He wasn’t exactly lying, in fact it was pretty much pure truth, but it wasn’t actually the answer to her question. It was also total manipulation. “And once you get in there, if you get in there, you’re...you’re gonna have to infiltrate them. No grabbing your son and blasting the place to hell. You’ll have to lie, tell them what they want to hear. It’s a lot to put on one person and...I’m worried about you.” _You know, that and I made a pretty big fucking mistake telling you how I actually felt and now the crushing guilt of manipulating you into feeling the same way about me is slowly but surely eating me alive but there’s no way to take back what I’ve already said and I hate myself for it._ Fuck, he was a mess.

Her lower lip wobbled and he felt like pure shit, but this was necessary, right? Right. Sure. Whatever he had to tell himself to sleep at night.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Deacon. I signed up for this. I know what I’m-” Her eyes drifted to the right of him and she frowned, “What’s that?”

Oh, fuck. “What’s what, angel?”

Her arms left him and she started walking towards the vault. “That over there. The little shack. I never noticed it before.” 

He trailed after her, anxiety pooling in his stomach, “I don’t think it’s all that important, Rosie. Just a shack.”

“Yeah, but you know me. I’m nosy. Huh. Somebody left here in a hurry. Left some things that are kinda...useful…”

Her eyes glazed over something on the inside of the shack and Deacon felt his stomach drop. Never should’ve let her come over this way. Never should’ve drawn that stupid little plus sign. Never should’ve gotten so goddamn _attached._

“Ally. Huh.” She looked up at him and he knew the jig was up. Her stare was cold and detached. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

No real point in lying, he supposed. “Yes.”

“You’ve been...watching me. Since the vault.”

His face was practically on fire as he nodded.

There were tears slowly running down her cheeks, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. “Please...Have you...Did you go inside?”

Another nod.

“Before or after I came out?”

“I...Rosie, I didn’t know who you were.”

“Jesus fucking christ, Deacon!” She turned away from him, her voice thick with tears as she ran a shaking hand through her hair. “And you didn’t...you lied! You lied and lied!”

“I tend to do that.”

She looked back at him, eyes full of teary rage and he instantly regretted opening his mouth. “Shut up. Shut the _fuck up._ You don’t get to be a smartass about this.” She started pacing, while he stayed absolutely glued to the ground. “So I’ve been your little pet project, huh? I knew it. I fucking knew it. Like a rat in a maze…” Something strange and horrible fell over her eyes and he wanted to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. The minute she spoke he wished he had. “Is...Was Barbara even real? Or was that just something to make me feel sorry for you?”

“What!? No! No, Rosie everything I said that night was true. Every word.” He was shocked to find there were tears in his own voice as well. “Rosie, I know I fucked up-”

“Fucked up?! We are _so_ past that. How long? How long did I sit there frozen before...before the malfunction.”

He took a shaky breath, “Two months.”

“ _Two months?!_ ” She was properly yelling now, and he winced at the sound of her voice. “Two months is everything! Two months and Kellogg could have still had my son! Two months...Why didn’t you just let me out? It would’ve been so easy!”

“I didn’t know...You could have been anyone. I didn’t know how you fit in with the Institute, or...or their plan-”

“My baby! My husband! You...you saw my husband, frozen in that icebox, and you _never_...you _never said a word!_ You never said a word…” She dropped to the ground and sobbed, and every atom in his body screamed to help her, to hold her, anything. “If- If everything you told me was true, you should know what that’s like! Losing somebody like that.”

“I know, I know, Rosie, I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

She balled her hands into fists and slammed them on the small crate next to her, “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore! Deacon, how am I supposed to...How do I trust anything you have to say?” She took a shaky breath, “You can’t trust everyone, right? That was a warning. A warning in big bold letters. I just didn’t fucking get it.”

He found himself on his knees, practically feeling her slip away from him. But this is what he wanted, right? A way to undo everything he felt for her. There was no way she could love him now.

“Did you mean to break my heart, or was that an accident?”

He just managed to croak out a gravelly response, “No, that was...never part of the plan. Never in a million years.”

She laughed, hollow and horrible, “I almost believe you.” She got up from the ground and dusted herself off, tears still falling rapidly down her face as she passed him. He didn’t even dare to look at her as she passed. “I love you, whoever you are, but...I can’t...I don’t wanna see you.” Her voice got slightly louder and he knew she had turned to talk to the back of his head, “Disappear. You’re good at that.”

He listened to her go. Stayed glued to the spot long after. He got what he wanted though, didn’t he? Distance. She pushed him away, just as she finally saw behind the curtain. He deserved every bit of this, and he knew it.

The following morning, he watched her. You know, old habits die hard and all that. He watched her get into that death trap, watched it shake and tremble while Tom and Sturges hollered, and then watched her disappear in a bright blue flash, before the entire machine went up in a ball of flames.

He prayed. Cursed the wind. And then headed for HQ.

Time for “lose yourself in your work” to take on a whole new meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any mistakes in this chapter, chalk it up to me not having the willpower to edit it. I'm very distressed. :(
> 
> The minute I give em something good I take it away, huh? I know. I'm the worst.
> 
> (But don't worry. It's not the end. Not yet!)


	19. The Hanged Man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie Castavet is hanging by a thread. Deacon's doing just as well.
> 
> Covenant gets what's coming to 'em.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence and gore. Torture, and injuries caused by torture. I won't say it's *dark* but it certainly isn't a walk in the park.
> 
> Okay, yeah. It's dark.

The next ten days passed in a blur, yet seemed insufferably long. He had been bouncing around the Commonwealth, trying to get some sort of read on where the Railroad was actually at, resource wise, and ended up being less than pleased with the result.

Blackbird was dead. That was disheartening. He’d been a good agent. The only one to survive the massive onslaught of Institute firepower against Augusta. He survived two fucking coursers only for Deacon to find him dead in a disgusting raider camp. The unfairness of it all was...maddening, but hey, when had life ever been fair? The note he found on his corpse still burned in his back pocket, the last few words branded into his brain— _Make them pay._

Clearing the way for Randolph safehouse was...difficult, but not for the usual reasons. With the lack of manpower they currently had, the buck was passed to Deacon. He’d volunteered, actually, only to find out they were sending him right into his own personal hell. Sure, University Point had changed time and time again since he’d set foot there, parts of it burnt to the ground more than once, but the shell was still the same. The college still stood, and walking through it flooded him with memories he’d really rather shove deep, deep into the ground, thank you very much. The synths crawling there had all been deactivated, thanks to him, all while he wove through University Point’s newest tragedy, a young girl who was too smart for her own good and another example of how absolutely horrid the Institute could be. The library with a funny name he convinced himself he couldn’t remember had been all but destroyed, and he almost cried. Almost. Then he remembered that everything there deserved to die, anyway. Nothing good ever seemed to happen here, despite the small, happy memories. They all soured in the end. The house was gone. It didn’t fill him with the relief he thought it would. 

The jobs started piling up, even more so than when he had been gallivanting across the Commonwealth with everyone’s favorite ice cube. He hadn’t slept in...a while. There was too much to do. 

And she wasn’t back yet. 

On day seven, Desdemona tried to cross her name off the blackboard. He vaguely remembered wordlessly taking the piece of chalk from her and crushing it in his hand, earning him more than a few looks. Well, whatever. He was tired. Strung out. And anyway, he was allowed to make friends. She was his partner for shit’s sake. Just cause he never had before... 

Except he wasn’t allowed friends. Not with the life he’d made for himself. He certainly wasn’t allowed...whatever they’d become. Whatever they were before she finally got fed up with all of his shit. Which he always knew, even in his deepest, most far fetched fantasies would happen. He knew he’d fuck it up, knew in his bones that he wouldn’t be able to keep her. He could never keep anything. 

“Hey, jackass. Where’s Blondie?" 

He frowned, “Good question, Glory. Haven’t seen her since she stepped into that oversized bug zapper, thanks for asking.” God, his head hurt. And that fucking twitch would not quit. 

“Cut the shit, Deacon.” Her face dropped, “Is...is she not with you?" 

He stared into Glory’s face, suddenly contorted with anxiety and felt his stomach drop. “Has she _been here?_ ” 

“Uh...yeah? She got back a couple days ago. Gave Dez a report and left for some little settlement. She said she’d come back with a report by the end of the day but she hasn’t been back since. Kinda crazy if you ask me, little spitfuck gets back from the Institute and just runs right off again.” 

He narrowed his eyes. Someone had been eavesdropping. It wasn’t like Dez to share details about...anything, really. He rubbed a hand over his stubble, “And no one thought, to tell me, maybe? You know, that my partner’s back from the most dangerous mission anyone’s ever been on before in one fucking piece? That’s it, I’m callin’ it. This place has gone to hell in a handbasket.” He felt his temper rise as his back hit the wall without knowing the exact reason why. He told himself it was because his whole fucking job was intel. Knowing things. And he didn’t even know where his partner was. Or whether they were partners at all, anymore. 

Glory punched his arm a little harder than necessary and frowned, “I thought you knew! I thought you were together like you always are. Real selfish if you ask me. I wanna see that little squirt in action too, you know.” 

Deacon’s brain settled on the words _together, like you always are,_ and fought back a wince. He turned on his heel and Glory called after him as he marched off to Dez, “Pulled a disappearing act on you, huh? Serves you right!” 

Any other day, he would’ve found that funny. Acidic, maybe a bit too on the nose, but funny. Typical sour Glory banter. Today it just made him wanna pop her in the mouth. Probably because she was right. 

Dez was standing over their map, looking tired and muttering to some runner who she dismissed when she saw him coming. Great. She already knew what this conversation was about. 

“So, was anybody gonna tell me the icecube was back in town or was I just supposed to read an announcement in the paper? Wait until Piper Wright announces it to Diamond city. Shit, if I am behind _Vadim the barkeep_ when it come to intel I'm just gonna jump off a building. I'll do it.” 

Dez rubbed her temples, “I thought this would be an issue.” 

“Foresight’s a bitch. It’s just that she is my partner, after all. Wouldn’t hurt to keep a guy clued in.” 

“Well, I’m as confused as you are, Deacon. Because she made it quite clear she didn’t want you to be clued in.” 

Deacon felt his ribcage give his heart a squeeze. “Did she now?” 

Dez gave him a look that was way too shrewd for his liking. “Any clues as to why that might be?” 

He shrugged, feigning playful nonchalance that didn't really read when it was battling intense frustration and anxiety. “She likes to fly under the radar. A woman after my own heart.” Dez raised an eyebrow and he scoffed, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were blaming me!” _And you would be correct, because it’s entirely my fault,_ “I am a picture perfect partner, pal. I’m the poster child of moral support.” _I am literally human garbage._

Desdemona’s expression remained unchanged. “I’m sure. The concerning thing is-” She cast him a quick glance, “Since you already know I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, she made her way to Covenant when she got back, saying she’d be back before the day was out with a report. That was four days ago.” 

_I have a problem with tardiness._ It rang through his head in her voice. She’d said it on their first mission together. Then, it made him laugh. Now, it made him queasy. 

He tried to keep his face neutral and unreadable. “Covenant, huh?” 

Desdemona lit another cigarette, “You know the place?”

 _Yeah, and it’s handy dandy little synth torturing compound._ “I’m familiar.” 

Desdemona sighed, “Apparently it has something to do with Stockton’s daughter. She’s gone missing.” 

Ah, yes. Little Amelia Stockton. Bastards probably figured out she was a synth. How they managed to do that, he still wasn’t sure. “So. Blondie went to save the day, but she hasn’t yet made a heroic return. Got it. Thanks a million, Dez.” 

He turned and started to walk off, and Desdemona interjected, “She didn’t say a word about her son. Nothing. I don’t think that’s a good sign.” 

Deacon felt his heart sink down to his feet and kept walking. One crisis at a time. 

~ 

“You are approached by a frenzied scientist, who yells, “I’m going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resonation chamber!” What’s your response?" 

“Oh, that’s easy. I say, “Hey, buy me dinner first, pal. I’m a high class gentleman,” and then we have a lovely evening ending with some light fondling and a less than wholesome goodnight kiss. I thought you said this test was gonna be hard!” 

He had scoped out Covenant and their accompanying compound months ago. Before Rosie had even come out of the vault. Unfortunately, there was no slipping in and out of their little establishment. It was too small to go unnoticed. Even if they did have traders and caravans going in and out now. Too risky. So he was stuck doing their little entry test with some dumbass with a thick accent who’s name he’d already forgotten. Huh. Maybe he really did need to sleep. Not remembering the names of people he’d met five minutes ago might be a low point. 

The man gave him a quizzical look from across the desk. “Well...uh...you passed. No one’s ever answered quite like you, but you passed.” 

Deacon grinned, “Aw, thanks, teach. What, no gold star?” 

His face remained blank, “Uh...no. Just entry to the town. I’ll open the gate for you.” 

_Point me toward the funeral, man. Here I thought I was pretty damn funny._ The man took a ring of keys from inside his jacket and swung open the gate. Inside the thick concrete walls were near pristine suburban houses, with a small number of settlers walking to and fro. There were a few dirtier, rougher types that Deacon pegged as wandering traders, and a man in all leather who stuck out like a sore thumb. Mercenary. Odd. 

Even more odd was the fact that he was arguing with the other inhabitants. Everybody else seem to have permanent smiles plastered on their faces, but not this guy. Deacon slunk closer until he could just make out what the man was saying. 

“Look, I’m not playin’ games anymore. I know Stockton’s caravan came through here. I know it was their last stop. All I’m askin’ for is a little information about when they were here.” 

Deacon’s ear perked up. Somebody else sniffing the same trail, then. 

A man in a white button down and khakis answered, “I’ve been telling you, I have no recollection of that caravan, or the girl. Now I don’t care who sent you, the Mayor says you’re an undesirable and I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, anyway. Good day.” Lie. An obvious one. 

The man in khakis walked off, leaving the merc, pissed and angrily smoking a cigarette, by himself. He looked around and nodded at Deacon, and he nodded back. Seemed like a good lead. And the goal was to talk to as little people as possible, so this could be good. 

“You from here or just passin’ through?” 

_Literally what about my appearance gives off "lives in creepy twilight zone town" to you?_ The man’s voice was gravelly and deep. Smoker’s voice. Scarred face, so he was reliable. Or, experienced in his field, anyway. Deacon channeled his best grizzled Bostonian caravener, and forced his mouth into a thin line. “Passin’ through. You?” 

“I’m Stockton’s hire. Lookin’ for his lost caravan.” 

Okay, so a half decent merc but could learn a thing or two about being discrete. Deacon could be anybody. He feigned surprise and raised his eyebrows, “No kidding? I had a friend pass through here looking for them too.” 

The merc’s eyes went wide, “Just recently? Ah, shit. Wouldn’t be a blonde girl, ‘bout yay high? Wears some sort of greaser jacket?” 

_My jacket._ Deacon felt his heart jump in his throat. “Yeah, that’s her. You’ve seen her?” 

“She was here a few days ago. Agreed to help me, then disappeared.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. Deacon fought the urge to shrink away. “She thought they were takin’ people. I reckon she’s right. She found out about some compound these schmucks have, then they put her up in the guest house and I didn’t see her again.” 

Deacon felt the small monster that usually lay dormant in the back of his brain wake up with a stretch. Any fear running through his brain was smothered by white hot anger as he clapped the other man on the shoulder and walked away. “Got it. Thanks pal.” 

The man, startled by his sudden departure took a few steps towards him. “Wait! I can help you find her. Chances are we find her we find Stockton’s girl, right?” 

“Nah, better you keep watch here, buster. Or better yet, blow this joint! Bye now!” _I got what I wanted, asshole. Take a hint._ he thought as he left the gate. Poor merc didn’t know who he was dealing with. He didn’t need some clumsy, hamfisted asshole complicating things. He certainly didn’t need to be talking to anyone here for more than half a minute. He felt watched. Seen. It made his skin crawl. 

He knew exactly where this compound was. Tucked away in some oversized pipe in Mystic Lake. He had watched enough assholes in silly little uniforms shuffle in and out. Taking this place out was actually on his to do list, but then the switchboard went dark and things got messy and it got bumped to the bottom of the list, but of course she had found it. Barely took her a day. Smart as a whip, that one. 

_Too smart for you._

The thought entered and exited his brain like an echo and he shook his head. No time for that bullshit now. He hadn’t even stayed long enough to check out the guest house she’d apparently been in since she’d vanished. He knew what happened. Rosie wouldn’t have left if she thought they were kidnapping people, taking them in the night. She probably hadn’t thought it would happen to her, though. Boy were those Covenant pricks gonna be sorry they took this one. 

He slowly entered the water and breached the vines that covered the entrance to their little underground compound. This place would be pretty covert if Covenant didn’t employ the least stealthy shitheads in the Commonwealth. And it was laughably easy to clear. The guards were clumsy, stupid, and slow, and Deacon’s focus was razor sharp at this point. Anger always did that. Gives you intense, fiery precision even if you hadn’t slept in three days. Or maybe a bit more than that. There was always a price to pay for it, though. Besides the fact that he really couldn’t seem to recall how he had killed the man currently bleeding out at his feet, an adrenaline rush could really kick the shit out of anyone, and he knew a fall was coming for him, he just didn’t really care right now. If his kills weren’t sloppy, who gave a shit? 

_Why are you so angry Deacon? Personal mission, huh?_

Deacon shook his head to shake himself free of his own taunting little voice as he finally came to a large central chamber, complete with cells built into the walls and three large metal cages in the middle of the floor. This is where they held them. He’d passed their disgusting torture rooms, complete with cold metal chairs and bloodied baseball bats, electrified batons and handcuffs. They better hope to hell he found Rosie untouched, or he’d burn this place to the fucking ground. 

A woman in goggles and a lab coat marched in through a pair of metal doors with two men in tow, carrying a small frame between them. Her head hung, but he didn’t have to see her face to know it was her. The place might as well already be soaked in kerosene. 

The woman in the lab coat pointed to one of the cages in the center of the room and the men roughly threw her in. Deacon heard a low growl escape his throat as her limp body hit the floor. She didn’t even fight back. The same girl who’d once thrown a rock at a supermutant simply laid there, unresponsive. He ground his teeth as his eyes swept over her from afar. She’d been stripped down to her once white undershirt and jeans, and both were covered in blood. Her blood. He couldn’t get a good look at her face from this far away and part of him was grateful for it. 

It had been too long since he’d gone sharpshooting, he thought as he leveled his rifle. In truth, it hadn’t been that long, but the sick gratification he got when the two guards collapsed in a small puff of pink mist reminded him how he’d missed it. Clean and efficient. He popped the stealth boy on his belt and crept up behind the woman, who was now desperately whipping around and calling out, trying to find the source of the bullets. He kept a tight fist around his breathing, silently moving towards her in a low crouch and ducking behind a large pillar. Deacon leapt out and grabbed her from behind just as she turned away and expertly twisted her neck with a sickening crack, and she crumpled to the ground. He was momentarily caught off guard by the instant gratification of it. He felt sick to his stomach. 

He switched off the stealth boy and turned a little to face the cages, one empty, one holding a corpse that Deacon forced himself to look away from and the other— the other...oh, god… 

Rosie was sprawled out, her limbs splayed in odd angles, soaking wet and shivering on the dusty floor. The water had made strange patterns in the blood soaking her shirt, and there were deep, angry red rope burns on her wrists. Small, thin cuts were painted across her arms, fresh and still open, and her face...good god, _her face._

Deacon’s eyes burned as he scrambled to the floor, his hands shaking as he rifled through the woman’s lab coat. She had to have keys, right? He released a shaky breath, all focus gone as he finally found a large key ring attached to her belt. He could’ve picked it, he supposed, but that would take too long. All of this was taking too long. 

It took three attempts before his trembling hands finally got the key to slide into the lock and he turned it, the door swinging loose with a mechanical click. Rosie shot up at the sound and pushed herself into the corner of the cage, looking more like a beaten dog than a woman, before her eyes settled on Deacon. 

“Oh, god! Deacon, I— Please,” She hurled herself forward and he dropped to his knees as she stumbled, catching her under the armpits as she started desperately sobbing. He held her head in front of him and forced himself to study her face. His anger bubbled and grew as he studied the two black eyes, purple bruises reaching all the way down to her cheekbones. Blood pooled in her left iris, and there was a small cut, old but still bloody across the bridge of her nose. There was a gash in her bottom lip, swollen and purple, like she’d taken a blow directly to the mouth. He felt the shake in his hands slowly reach all the way up to his shoulders. 

“Who did this?” He was almost startled by the way it came out, dark and horrible, but he couldn’t bring himself to force all of the messy emotions ravaging his insides down and away. 

Rosie hiccupped, her hands balled in the collar of his bomber jacket. “The...The doctor. Doctor...Oh, shit…” 

“Which doctor, Rosie?” He’d shot a couple assholes in lab coats, already. He needed to know if he needed to hunt down another. 

“Doctor Chambers!” She finally blurted out, as if she’d just remembered, “Doctor Chambers. The woman with the gray hair, she wears goggles. I don’t— She’s the one that…she tortures them, Deacon! She thinks I’m a synth because of their test, she...she has Amelia here...and they— They torture them until they finally die, and then they…” She chokes on her words, and Deacon fights the urge to hold her head to his chest, “They dissect them! Oh, god. Deacon, they...they lead you past the room when they...when they—” 

She dissolves into heavy sobs, and Deacon tastes bile at the back of his throat. Doctor Chambers. He growls as his head turns back to her corpse on the floor. He wants to say, _I’m sorry. She didn’t die slow enough. Not nearly slow enough._

He turns back to Rosie and almost winces at the picture she makes. “Rosie, can you walk?” 

She nods her head, and a few water droplets fall from her hair to his pants. He’d barely thought about why she was wet. Waterboarding maybe. The very thought made him want to spit. 

He hoisted her up slowly. She stands on shaky knees, but steadies herself to the point where he’s satisfied, and wrenches the ring of keys from the lock. 

“Take these and get everyone out of here. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” 

She nods, eyes wary but evidently lacking the energy required to argue with him. He watches as she unlocks the cells, one by one, and grits his teeth as he watches each occupant step out, each one in no better shape than Rosie. Some of them in rags, more than a few barefoot. Each one bony and gaunt. He waits until she’s led each one of them towards the entrance, the girl he recognizes as Amelia saying something about their things locked in a trunk somewhere, and pops his neck as he listens to their shuffling footsteps dissipate. He scans the room. Grits his teeth. His eyes land on a large canister of turpentine. 

When he finally emerges from the lake, Rosie doesn’t ask what took him so long. She doesn't ask why he has a rag tied over his mouth. She just stands there, clutching a small bundle of things in her arms, asking each of the former prisoners if they have a place to go, and they disperse. 

Deacon plucks her pack from her arms and slings it over his shoulder, ripping the cloth from his face. “Let's go.” 

There’s a small train station, or what used to be a train station nearby. There’s a depot next to the train tracks, with an office on the second floor he found the keys to a while back. Now it sits in the little pocket of his rucksack with a bunch of other one’s just like it. Places around the Commonwealth to hide. To run to, if necessary. Temporary places. In and out like a ghost places. 

There’s a small woodfire stove inside. A small pipe chimney reaching from it and poking through the roof. It’s a risk to send smoke out into the air, basically a smoke signal that reads _hey, we’re over here,_ but she’s wet and she’s cold and he’ll take the fucking risk, thanks. 

The slightly damp twigs he’d shoved in the stove finally light, and he sits back against the opposite wall, his back pressing against the filing cabinets. Rosie sits a few feet away, trembling and hugging her knees, her eyes still too wide, her skin still too pale. 

Deacon pulled out a small jar of dried mutfruit and slid it wordlessly across the floor. It lands next to her hip and she shakes her head. 

“When’s the last time you ate?” 

She pauses, and when she doesn’t answer he knows it’s been too long. “I think if I ate right now I’d make myself sick.” 

He sat for a second. Then he reaches again into his pack for the small first aid kit he knows is shoved down at the bottom. He soaked a small cloth in antiseptic and scooted himself closer to where Rosie sits. She winces as his hand moves. It feels like a punch to the heart to see her react to him that way. 

“I know, but it’s gotta be done, Rosie.” 

“That’s not...” She opens her mouth to continue but the words die on her tongue, and she just shakes her head. He’s not going to prod any further. Not now.

He slowly starts cleaning the cuts on her arms, earning him small hisses in return as she presses her eyes shut. The cuts are superficial. Not deep enough to do anything, just deep enough to hurt. Bastards. 

His hands start shaking again when he reaches her face. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t understand it. How could someone look a that face and do something so horrible to it? He tries desperately to steady his hands as he wets another rag, slowly swiping it across her busted lip. His eyes burn. He blinks it away. 

Rosie’s eyes slowly open, and he tried to will them closed. It was hard enough to do this when she wasn’t looking at him like a kicked puppy. She speaks despite him cleaning around her mouth. “Your hands are shaking.” 

“Are they?” Shrill. Forced. Unconvincing. 

“Your hands never shake.” 

Fuck. Anxiety claws at his shoulders and he feels his eye twitch. “Never say never, sweetheart.” 

A small twitch dashed across her face that had nothing to do with the sting of the antiseptic and he scolded himself. He moved on to the gash on her nose. 

Now she was watching him, with that child-like, ever curious gaze that always made him feel too uneasy. Like she had x-ray vision. Her brow was slightly furrowed, like she was confused. Or worried. 

Dammit. _She_ was worried about _him._

He finally managed to clean her entire face without giving in to the prickling feeling behind his eyes. The warmth of the stove finally hits him and he looks her up and down. “Is there anything else? Did they hurt you anywhere else?” 

She shook her head, “No. They...tossed me around some, but nothing more than bruising. That’s all.” 

He shakes his head and mutters, “That’s all…” A thought he’d meant to keep to himself, but it was out there now. Slipped off of his tongue. He watched a water droplet wall from her hair and frowned, “You need to change. You’re gonna catch something.” 

She looked away and started rifling through her pack, her ears turning red. “I, uh…I don’t know if I have anything to— oh, I have pants but not… I don’t have a shirt. The other one...it’s ruined. I wasn’t anticipating a long trip,” He wordlessly held up a white tee he’d already gotten out and she stopped short. “Oh. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

He turned his back to her and listened to the soft rustle of fabric. “I have socks, though. If that tells you how good I am at prioritizing.” 

He wants to laugh, kind of manages a small exhale of acknowledgement, but it doesn’t even sound like her. There’s no signature, Rosie-like goofiness in her voice, it’s not a silly little joke that’s followed by a wide smile. It’s dark, and wry, and uncharacteristically pessimistic for such a small comment. There’s something off. Like a door has closed, and he’s hearing her voice muffled through it. He realizes he didn't even notice she'd walked all the way over here in _socks_ and chastises himself.

He heard the floorboards creak as she sat back down, and he grabbed the stimpak from the first aid kit. He chanced a glance over at Rosie, looking pretty ridiculous in baggy brown trousers and a tee shirt that she could wear as a dress, but he couldn't bring himself to laugh. Not when her face looks like… 

“It’s alright. I don’t, uh… It’s not that bad.” 

She looked at the stimpak in his hands as he gawked at her. “Not that bad? Rosie have you…have you seen your face?” His voice cracks and he wants to kick himself. _Keep it together, Deacon._ She just stares at him, her expression strange, telling him something he can’t really put his finger on and shakes her head. He sat on his knees next to her, holding her arm, and when she didn’t protest he slid the needle into a vein. She tore her eyes away from the injection as his eyes betray him and glance at her face over the shades. He watched as the bruises on her face faded just barely, and the swelling around her eyes went down. He let out a shaky breath and Rosie looked back, their eyes locking. He looks back down too late. His eyes are glassy and watering, and he knows it. 

“You wanna know something?” 

He hums in response. Seems too risky to try and talk right about now. 

"You...you always change. I mean, you find out what a person needs, and you change to fit that. Took me too long to notice.” He slides the needle out of her arm and rubs a thumb over the injection sight, trying his best to keep his head down, “When we found that synth at Greentech, you knew, somehow, that she didn’t want our help. You knew who’d she be comfortable with. I watched you change.” She shook her head, “If you asked me _what_ changed I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It’s so slight. You became this...I dunno. It’s like you were bored almost. Cold. Here to do a job and get out. Because you knew she didn’t want to be smothered. When you talk to Mac—” She stopped, and when she spoke again he could hear her smile. He tried to ignore how it made his heart jump. “You always want to throw him for a loop. Make sure he knows he hasn’t figured you out. Because it infuriates him, and when he get’s all red-faced it makes you laugh.” She let out a small exhale that could almost be a chuckle, and then she went silent. Deacon tensed as he rearranged the things in his pack. 

“You did the same thing to me.” 

He winced, not catching it fast enough to hold it down, and turned to try and say something, anything, but she cut him off. “But you weren’t manipulating me. Well, maybe you were, a little bit. It’s always a little manipulative, isn’t it? But it's just how you operate. I needed a protector. You could probably smell it on me. Someone to show me what the world was like now. The inner-workings of it. The shadowy parts. I know you don’t know this, but...you reminded me of Nate.” 

He finally looked up at that, finding her staring at him with sad, contemplative eyes. “You did. Except some parts were...very uniquely you.” She looked down, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips. “You think I don’t notice that with everyone else you’re basically unshakeable? Carrington can say the shittiest thing known to man and you’ll just smile and make kissy faces. Even if I know it pisses you off. But when I poke the bear, you react. Because you know it makes me laugh.” She said the last part fondly, looking back up at him with soft eyes that just about break his heart into pieces. The funny part was she didn’t know that he wasn’t doing that on purpose. She got to him because...it was her. 

“When I finally put the pieces together...I was angry. Thought you were playing little games with people. And sometimes you are...but...that’s not what this is, is it? That’s just how you’re made. Whatever somebody needs, you give it to them, because it’s just in your nature. You’ll cater to anyone but yourself, because you need to feel like you're useful. But you—” She sighed and looked down at her hands, “I guess my point is...I don’t know who this is. You’re still trying to take care of me—” 

“I always will. I’ll always try to take care of you.” It had slipped out before he could stop it, like his tongue had betrayed him, gone rogue against his better judgement. And more were coming, words just tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, “Rosie, I’m— I’m so sorry. I should’ve…I should’ve been there. I could’ve stopped this. I promised myself…” _I was never going to let anybody hurt you, and I failed. I failed you._

His hand fell and he realized he was right in front of her, his hand reaching out for her face. She caught his hand before it hit his lap. “Listen, I— I’m not sure anyone could’ve stopped it. Stopped me. After the Institute…” She looked down, staring at his hand cradled between the two of hers. “I just wanted to run myself into the ground.” She says it so quietly that he almost misses it. He knows what she means by that. And it hits him so hard he nearly cries. 

He takes his shades off and squeezes her hand. “I’m not gonna let that happen. Not in a million fucking years, Rosie. Even if I have to chase you down in every strange catacomb in Massachusetts.” 

Tears fall from her face, hidden by hair, “What if it should?” 

“What if it should what? I don’t understand, Rosie.” He did understand. He just wanted to be wrong. 

“My son’s the director of the Institute.” She was looking up at him now, eyes red and angry, her face contorted by grief. “He’s sixty years old. That’s how long I was frozen after Nate died. Sixty years. They used his DNA to make synth’s, Deacon. My DNA. I’m...responsible for them. All of them.” 

“Are you kidding?” He gingerly wiped a tear from her face, trying desperately not to hurt the bruised skin there, “Rosie, you aren’t responsible for the enslavement of synth’s because you had a baby with your husband two hundred years ago.” 

“Maybe not directly…” 

“No. Absolutely not. Your son was stolen from you. I’m not going to let you kick yourself for something that isn’t even remotely your fault.” 

“You do.” 

He gave her a questioning look, but she just shook her head, her sobs growing louder now. “He’s the one that let me out of the vault. It wasn’t some kind of malfunction...he— he said he wanted to see what I would do. Like...like I was a rat in a fucking maze!” 

“Rosie, that’s—” 

“They hurt him!” She bellows out, tears falling hot and fast down her cheeks, “They took my baby and— and they twisted him! Turned him into this cold, unfeeling sociopath! What am I supposed to—” She dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders shaking with every sob, “What am I supposed to tell everybody?” 

Deacon sat for a moment, the room silent save the sound of Rosie’s hiccuping, and made a decision. He could do this. He could be this, for her. He may be the fuck up of the year, nae, the reigning king of fuck ups, but damn if he wasn’t gonna try. He could be better. For her. 

He leaned back against the filing cabinets and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know. But we’re—” The ‘we’ just sort of, came out, but he let it happen, “We’re gonna figure it out. We’re gonna make this okay.” He didn’t even know if that was a promise he could keep, if anyone on the face of the earth could keep, but it was what they both needed right now. 

She sniffed and he felt her look up at him. “Deacon. I need to— I mean, I know...what happened in the barn loft that night, I know you regret it, and that’s _fine,”_

Deacon turned her around to face him, trying to keep his grip as gentle as possible, “What?! Rosie, no, is that what you thought…?” 

“You kissed me and then wouldn’t lay a finger on me for a week. It was like we took ten steps backwards. I know I’m a bit oblivious when it comes to things like this, but...what was I supposed to think?” 

“Rosie, it’s not—” He sighed. Great. This was...much more complicated to explain. “It’s not that I regret...what happened. It’s just that…” He sighed, hanging his head in front of her, “Rosie, everyone I've ever cared about has ended up dead. Or worse. I have...massively fucked up everything good in my life, and you’re— you’re _so good_ Rosie. You’re too good. You’re too good for me.” Holy hell. All absolute truth. Sure, it made him feel like he was standing with his toes off the edge of a skyscraper, but there it was. 

Rosie tutted, “Goddammit.” 

Deacon frowned, “That’s not...quite the reaction I would’ve hoped for.” 

“Sorry, it’s just,” She shook her head, “Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you show me something else.” 

“Enigmatic. That’s me.” 

A shadow of a smile drifted over her face before it slowly soured. “Deacon, I— I don’t know when they’re watching me. They put something in my pipboy, so I can travel back and forth, but I don’t know what else it does. I need...to figure all of this out. We can’t just go back to the way things were. I need...I need time.” 

He nodded. That he could definitely do. He had waited for her before, hadn’t he? 

Deacon had always been a patient man. 

It was late. Or early. She needed rest. He got her to pick at the mutfruit a little. Gave her water, told her to try and get some sleep, and slipped out. She didn’t ask where he was going, or whether he’d be back. 

Rosie tossed and turned, finally falling asleep due to pure exhaustion. When she woke up, his jacket was draped across her like a blanket, and the little jar of mutfruit sat on the desk, next to an open cherry nuka-cola and a key. 

She left. Locked the door behind her. 

Two spirals of inky black smoke that are gonna be awfully hard to explain rise into the air. 

She goes home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. A tired Deacon is a grumpy Deacon. Also, word of advice from me to you, don't touch the blonde one. He'll burn your house down.
> 
> And Deacon visits his hometown! Albeit briefly. The library with the silly name is actually the Healey library, which is a library in UMass Boston that University Point is based on.
> 
> Also, cherry nuka is Rosie's favorite. Juuust sayin. <3
> 
> P.S. I don't actually know what happens when you start a fire underground. I don't think Deacon knows either. I also don't think he cares that much.
> 
> P.P.S. Mac is gonna be epically pissed.


	20. The Princess Of Swords.

The minute Mac sees Rosie’s face, she’s afraid he might burst a blood vessel.

Between the ranting and raving, he had dragged her by the hand over to his house, grumbling to the empty air in front of him. She didn’t get a single word in, which under different circumstances, would be strange for her. But everything since she made it into the Institute seemed strange. Wrong.

But being with Mac in his cheerful little house was better. Safe. Duncan hugged her knees when she came in, but no greeting. He just went right back to coloring on the floor by the television, while the Howdy Doody tapes that Codsworth found on one of his scavenging trips, “For little mister Macready,” played.

Mac had shuffled her into the kitchen where Duncan couldn’t see and checked her over, silently wincing as his eyes scanned over the dark purple bruises painting her ribcage, and the small, peach colored lines cutting across her arms. She hadn’t looked at her own face yet. The way RJ’s eyes watered as he studied her made her sure she didn’t want to.

He didn’t ask about the shirt she was wearing. Or the jacket she hadn’t let go of since she got there. He didn’t ask because he already knew.

When he had apologized over and over, told her he was sorry for not being there, for not knowing, she had just burst into tears. Told him the whole story of Covenant, about men in vault gear taking her in the middle of the night, about Doctor Chambers and her cruel torture devices, about poor Amelia Stockton, and fear controlling the minds and morals of a whole town. But when she got to the end, to the part where she was laying in a cell, cold and wet and defeated and ready to just die and get it over with, she couldn’t seem to get the words out. She had to force herself to tell Mac the rest of it. To tell him that Deacon saved her. Came to her rescue like the most frightening white knight she had ever seen, and then when morning came, he was gone, and Covenant was burning. She had watched as a strange look passed over Macready’s stormy face, but he didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Rosie was grateful.

And now here they were. Sat on the kitchen floor, both of their heads against the cabinets, drinking their nukas in a strange yet comfortable silence, while Duncan’s show gabbered on in the next room.

When Rosie spoke, her voice came out hoarse and tired, “He still giving you the silent treatment?”

Mac snorted, “Me and everyone else. He’ll have good days, a good week even, and he wants to talk to me about everything and anything, and then he’ll shut right back down again. He doesn’t seem upset or angry or...I don’t know. Just...silent. I don’t know what it is.”

“Maybe it’s a phase.”

Mac ran a hand across his eyes, “Maybe. But in all Joseph’s letters—” His eyes widened and Rosie saw another glimpse of the small child that he usually kept tucked away under the gruff merc persona, “Oh! Oh, sh— shoot, I’ve gotta show you something!” Mac scrambled to his feet and plucked a sheet of paper out from under a magnet shaped like a turtle on the front side of the fridge. He plopped back down on the floor and handed her the note. “Can’t believe I almost forgot. Got this from Joseph about a week ago. Didn’t get the chance to tell you, I guess with...you know, with everything going on.”

Rosie felt a small pang of guilt in her chest, but tried to muster a small smile anyway. She’d really thrown a monkey wrench into everybody’s lives, hadn’t she? She looked down at the letter in her hands and read the small, neat print on the page.

_Mac,_

_Hope Duncan is adjusting well! Your visit was a bright spot in these past few months, which have been less than ideal._

_Bumble’s aged out. I thought I remembered her birthday, but apparently I was a few days off. I tried to catch her in Big Town, but she’d already been nabbed by the slavers in Paradise Falls. Those assholes emptied my pockets before they let me leave with her. I don’t think I’ve ever felt dirtier than I did leaving that place while all those poor people in collars stared at me. Wish I could’ve saved them all. Hopelessly idealistic, I know, but it’s true._

_Bumble is the same as she always has been. Sweet. Naive. Clumsy as ever. Broke my can opener about two days after she got here. Still calls me Uncle Joseph. I still don’t know what those bastards did to her. She won’t say a word about it._

_The Capital is getting worse, Mac. And now with Bumble, it’s starting to weigh on me. She’s too soft. She’s gonna get herself killed out here, and I’m not about to let that happen._

_So, we’re heading for Boston. You made it sound so great when you came. Hopeful, at least. There’s a caravan that’s agreed to take us both, heading for a place called Bunker Hill. By the time you get this, we’ll be on our way. Bumble deserves a better life than this. Hell, maybe I do too._

_Hope to see you when we get there,_

_Joseph_

Rosie felt excitement bubble up in her stomach despite herself as she finished the letter, “Oh my goodness! Well, they absolutely have to come here. Those bungalows are still empty, and Joseph took _such_ good care of Duncan, the least we can do is—” She looked up, seeing that Mac was positively beaming, and she gave him a small smile, “Oh, you’re too cute.”

He shook the smile off of his face, “I’m _what?_ ”

She chuckled slightly as Macready’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I don’t know! Just— A couple months ago you were all tough, puffed up mercenary and now you...you just get to be a dad. And now you’re friends are coming, and...it’s just nice to see you so...happy.”

Mac’s eyes softened, “I wish I could see you like that.”

Rosie looked down and started peeling the label off of her soda, “Tough.”

“I know.” 

They sat in silence for a moment before Rosie spoke, letting the guilt in her throat finally crawl out through her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

He frowned, “For what?”

“For...I don’t know RJ, I just feel like— like I’m always busting in and ruining everything. I come into your house, and— and I’m crying myself to pieces while your son’s in the next room—”

“Oh, please. What are you, embarrassed? Don’t be, Duncan cries all the time. Bath’s too cold, he cries. I forget to turn his socks inside out, he cries. Curie let’s him leave after his checkup without getting a kiss first, he cries. He’s a reasonable kinda guy, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

She wanted to laugh, but tears were already starting to crawl up her throat, choking her, so she just shook her head. God, she hated how easy it was to make her cry. It made her feel stupid, and childish, and small.

“Rosie. Do you know how much better my life is because of you?”

She could feel his eyes on her and just shook her head again in response. She was going to keep those tears in her eyeballs if it _killed her…_

“Yes. It is. Duncan is here because of you.”

“That’s not true. You would’ve done it all on your own.” _Because you’re smart and capable and you love him and you’re a wonderful father and_ —

“Okay. Fine. But it would’ve happened a lot later. We barely knew each other a month before you found out about him. You just _guessed it._ ”

“It was obvious,” she mumbled.

Mac groaned, “Would you just shut up for two seconds and let me explain to you how important you are to me? Is that too much to ask? You know what, I take it all back. You’re a nuisance and I hate you. Get out of my house.”

Rosie finally felt a laugh escape her and looked up to find Mac smiling down at her. “That’s better. I can only take so much sincerity from you in one day. Grumpy Mac is something I can deal with.”

Mac hooked an arm around her neck and ruffled her hair, and she unconsciously relaxed under his grip. She couldn’t help it. All she wanted when she saw Deacon was to crawl into his arms and never go anywhere else. She wanted to fall asleep while he ran his gentle fingers through her hair like she used to. But she couldn’t. _They_ couldn’t. Something had...changed. And she hated it.

She felt RJ’s voice rumble in his chest as he spoke, “I need to get Duncan away from that TV. It’s gonna rot his brain.”

“Yeah,” Rosie responded, trying to ignore all the things that kept nagging at the back of her brain, “Get out Blast Radius. I’m gonna smoke that kid.”

~

They spent the day like that, playing little games and puttering around the island. If Rosie didn’t let her mind wander, she was fine. Things were fine. All she had to do was...not think. At all. Easy peasy.

Then the sun went down all too soon. She had been dreading trying to sleep. She’d barely been able to since she got back from the Institute, and whether that was because of the Institute itself or the lack of a...certain someone...well, she didn’t want to think about that either.

But then, somehow, like he always did, Mac knew. He’d put Duncan to bed and came back into the living room, and when Rosie tried to say an awkward goodbye and slip out the front door, he’d stopped her. Said there was no way she was going to sleep all by herself in that big house.

She appreciated it more than he could possibly know.

She even appreciated the fact that Duncan seemingly couldn’t sleep the whole night alone either. He’d wandered in just as soon as they both went to bed. So now Rosie was stuck in a Macready sandwich, with RJ snoring on his stomach on her left, and Duncan drooling on her right shoulder. It was...oddly comforting. She probably shouldn’t read too much into that. Probably shouldn’t come to the conclusion that it definitely made her feel comforted because she missed her own child. That she wished she was lying next to _her_ baby, and _her_ husband, and—

Oh, shit.

Duncan rolled off her shoulder with a small snort and Rosie sighed. She couldn’t do this. It left her too much time to think. She stared out the window across from her and decided she needed a walk.

“Hey,” She rolled over and tapped on Macready’s shoulder, “Hey, bedhead. Wake up.”

Mac simply grumbled in his sleep. Rosie propped open one eyelid to no avail. Obviously, drastic measures had to be taken.

She clambered on top of his back and sat down heavily, and the cough that she heard underneath her meant she’d done it. Mac’s awake.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His voice was muffled by the pillow, and Rosie hissed back, “RJ! Watch your language!”

He groaned and she felt him squirm underneath her, “Holy— Why are you so heavy? You’ve gotten fat.”

She thought about pinching him, but the sight of Duncan sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed made her think better of it. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Let’s take a _what?_ ”

“A walk, Mac. Macaroni. Macaroon. Mac attack.”

“What time is it?”

“Mmm...about midnight.”

“Jesus, Rosie…”

“Please?”

There was a long pause. For a moment, Rosie thought he might have fallen back asleep.

“Fine. But I’m not putting my shirt back on.”

~

The air outside was cool and wet, and Rosie sighed as the chilly air hit her skin, giving her relief from the strange, hot, stuffy feeling stirring in her chest. She tried to take a deep breath, but there didn’t seem to be enough air in the universe to do so.

Mac finally fell into step next to her and whined, “It’s cold out here.”

Rosie stopped and dropped to the ground, lying on her back in the damp grass. “Well, sure. If I was half-naked, I would probably be cold, too.”

Macready landed heavily next to her, “Blegh. The grass is all wet.”

Rosie just stared at the sky, marveling at the sight of it and ignoring Mac’s complaints. “You know, back in my day, you couldn’t dream of seeing this many stars.”

Mac finally let his back fall against the grass, looking up at the sky with her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Light pollution. All the lights on down here meant you couldn’t see all the light from—” She gestured vaguely at the sky, “up there. It’s beautiful, really.”

“Alright.” He sighed and she heard movement next to her, “What’s the matter?”

She sucked her teeth, “Whatever do you mean?”

He scoffed, “Please, Rosie. You remember the last time you woke me up in the middle of the night, right? Dunno why you still think you can lie to me.”

Rosie attempted another deep breath through her nose and immediately regretted it. The smell of the wet grass and ocean spray met with the smell of Deacon’s shirt, as frustratingly indescribable as ever. It just smelled like _him._ She didn’t want to admit that it was grounding her, keeping her from falling apart even more than she already was. A silly little shirt that smelled like a man she couldn’t hope to claim she knew was just barely holding her together. She knew what that meant. Of course she did. She just didn’t want to _deal with it._ She was already dealing with...too much.

But she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“I love him,” she whispered into the night air, “I love him, RJ.” She felt his eyes burning a hole in the side of her head, but kept her eyes firmly trained on the stars above her. He didn’t say anything, just took her hand in his as she soldiered on, feeling more and more like she was making some sort of confession, “But I shouldn’t. It’s not...it’s not a good idea. He’s made it quite clear that—”

She stopped. He hadn’t made _anything_ clear, actually. When did he ever? Everytime she was sure she knew how he felt about her, he did something else that made her think she was completely wrong. Was she being toyed with? Manipulated? Or did he actually have feelings for her and was just determined to push her away? For some stupid, unknown, Deacon-ish fucking reason. And the minute she decided to return the favor, there he was again. In and out like a ghost. Just like he always said.

A squeeze of her hand brought her back to the present, but she still couldn’t look at him. “You said it yourself, RJ. I don’t know who he is. Not completely. When I saw him in the compound he was...I didn’t even recognize him.” 

In fact, it had forced a prewar memory into her mind. It made her think of some Sunday morning nature program she had watched at some point, one that she hadn’t even realized she remembered. Images of sharks in chummy water, their eyes glazing over to a complete black, silent and lethal as they cut through the water. “I’d never seen him like that before, Mac. He was all predator. It was terrifying.” 

_And yet,_ she thought, _made me feel safer than I‘ve ever felt in my entire life._

“He’s a fucking psychopath,” Mac responded, staring at the sky.

She sniffed. “Probably.”

“Total lunatic.”

“Yeah.” She winced and forced back the tears at the back of her eyes, “And yet…”

“And yet,” Mac responded, “I respect the he— heck out of him right now.”

Rosie frowned and shot up from the grass, “You _what?!_ ”

Mac threw an arm over his eyes, “Oh, shut up. I’m tired. Forget I said it.”

“Nuh uh. No take-backs. Explain yourself.”

His arm left his face and flopped into the grass next to him, “I don’t know if you realize this, Rosie, but he didn’t burn the place down in a rush of pro-synth righteousness. He flattened that town because they hurt you.”

Mac’s eyes burned into her own, holding an odd sense of understanding in them that almost knocked her sideways. She couldn’t believe it took her this long to realize how similar they were. 

“I...suppose you’re right.”

He snorted, “I’m always right.” Yep. Strikingly similar. “And don’t think I take back any of my previous comments. Little punk needs to shape up before he even _starts_ to deserve you. In all your scrawny, obnoxious glory.”

She ripped out a handful of grass and tossed it at his head, “I dunno who you’re calling a little punk. He’s almost twice your age.” Rosie shut her mouth with a click as soon as she said it. Whoopsie. Hadn’t meant to let that little fact slip.

She watched as RJ's eyes widened, and the little vein in his forehead made an appearance, “He’s _what now?_ ”

“You know what? We should probably head back. Don’t want Duncan to wake up with both of us gone, you know.”

“How old is he, Rosie?”

But she was already marching back towards the house, “I’m sorry, what? Didn’t catch that.” She stretched into an overdramatic yawn, “ _So_ tired…”

She heard him grumble behind her and smiled. Everything in her world might be crumbling, yet again, but he was here. She let herself think that he’d always be here, even if that might not be true. She knew it wasn’t the greatest idea in the world to become so...dependent on people, but what the hell. She was allowed to have a few pet coping mechanisms, right? Right.

And she had her fair share of distractions. They had newcomers arriving soon. She had to clean out one of those bungalows...see if she could cobble together some furniture...get Dogmeat back from the Castle, too. Poor puppy had been on guard duty too long. All work and no play and all that.

All she had to do was try not to think for a while. That’s all.

Easy peasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph and Bumble are two kids from little lamplight. Joseph is two years older than Mac, and served as kind of the schoolteacher for all the kids. Which miiight sort of be a teeny tiny bit of foreshadowing. Maybe. ;) Bumble, (or Betty,) was the littlest kid in lamplight during the events of Fallout 3, and she would now be sixteen, hence, aging out and being captured by the slavers in Paradise Falls. Joseph's been taking care of Duncan, and politely refused to head back to Boston with Mac when he came to get him, precisely because he knew Bumble was aging out this year. He's been worried about her even since *he* aged out, being her pseudo-uncle and all that. Aaaand they're coming to Spectacle Island! And boy is that gonna be fun. Bumble is definitely gonna be a welcome, sunny presence on the island, lol.
> 
> Poor Rosie. She's just barely hangin' in there. The way she deals with pretty much any bad thing™ is running herself into the ground to distract herself, and boy is she trying her best to burn out.
> 
> This chapter was me letting you guys know how Rosie's feeling, and of course, putting in as much Rosie and RJ interaction as possible. 🥰 Next chapter is Deacon's POV, and things get...complicated. And for once, it's not even his fault, lol.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you guys think. <3


	21. The Bear And The Blind Betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know what the fuck is goin' on.
> 
> TW: Mentions of suicide.

It had been two and a half weeks since he pulled her out of Covenant. August had slowly faded into September, and the air was starting to get colder. He started noticing it on runs. The wind was just this side of too cold, and at night it felt like it swept right through you. HQ was busy. So busy that _Deacon_ was _regularly going on runs._ Crazy shit, but Rosie's rendezvous with Patriot had produced a plan more ambitious than anything they'd ever done before, and the preparation was...intense. The biggest worry was having a place to put all these synths when they were sent out all at once, so packages were being shuttled out at top speed. Which was, you know...incredibly dangerous, but it's not like the Railroad had ever been in the business of playing the safe game. Even with the constant movement, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was _waiting_ for something.

Oh, who was he kidding. He was waiting for her. He’d never been so antsy in his life.

Rosie had said she needed time. Deacon told himself he could give it to her. Patience. A practice in patience. But now he was waist deep in some strange, relationship limbo. It’s not like he could just...go talk to her. Every joke that she would’ve laughed at either sat and rotted in his brain, or was met with a crowd that was, at best, indifferent. An eye roll from Carrington even in the best of moods, a middle finger from Glory on a good day, not even Drummer Boy was giving him the time of day. Maybe he was losing his touch. Or maybe everyone was incredibly stressed the fuck out. Maybe both. Probably both. Business as usual in Railroad HQ.

He missed her. Boom. There. And it was incredibly distracting.

He missed her big, toothy smile. Missed the way her curls would bounce when she walked. He missed having someone around who would throw every quip and snarky remark right back at him. He missed staring at her. Hearing her voice. Shit, he just missed seeing that sweet face everyday. He was distracted. Scattered. Exactly what he had been afraid of.

Which is why when he looked up and saw her standing just a few feet away from his desk, he stood up so fast he smacked his head on that _stupid low-hanging ceiling._ Which was almost worth Rosie’s slight look of concern as she rushed the last few steps over to him, reaching her hand out over the desk that separated them like she was going to touch him, before thinking better of it and dropping it.

“Are you alright?”

The bruises on her face had faded slightly, but purple still painted the skin under her eyes, with splashes of yellow dotting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her busted lip had healed. She looked almost back to normal, but he still found himself pushing down a rush of anger and shutting away a small, fleeting thought that he’d like to smooth the furrow between her eyebrows with his thumb.

He settled for rubbing the spot on the back of his head that hit the ceiling. “Who, me? Oh, yeah. Just a little...cognitive recalibration. You know. Keep me sharp.”

“Right.” 

Carrington dropped a first aid kit he’d been fiddling with, and cursed as the metallic clang echoed through the catacomb. Every agent stiffened, looked up, and then returned to their work. Deacon felt his heart skip several beats as his eyes scanned her and he realized she was wearing _his_ jacket over a tee shirt and a dark red flannel. It left him almost _giddy,_ like he was fourteen fucking years old.

“So how’s—”

“I’m actually—”

They spoke at the same time and then froze. Deacon sat and hooked his foot around the leg of his chair to stop it from bouncing. “You first, Blondie. Gimme the highlights.”

“Well, I—” She ran a hand through her hair and he realized how much he missed that little habit, “I need your help.”

He raised an eyebrow and tried to swallow his excitement, “Oh?”

She mistook his badly covered anxiety as smugness and made a face. “Yeah, yeah. But you’re not gonna like...what I need help with.”

 _That’s funny, because if you asked me to cut out my own kidney for you right now I totally would._ “Oh, yeah? What’s the job?”

“It’s…” She fidgeted a little, her chucks drawing a circle in the dust that always seemed to coat the floor, “Well, it’s kind of...delicate. If we could talk...somewhere else, maybe?”

“Tryna get me to a second location, huh, slick?” He gave her a slightly lopsided smile, but it didn’t melt the ice of her expression.

“I guess you’re just gonna have to trust me. A tall order, I know.”

Damn. She got him there. He hissed through his teeth, “Alright. Message received.” He grabbed his pack that was resting underneath his desk. “Lead the way.”

She gave the bag in his hands a quizzical look, “Ready to leave at a moment’s notice, huh?”

He chuckled softly and followed her back into the escape tunnel, “You have no idea.”

~

They made their way through the tunnel in strange silence, save the small splashing noises as they trudged through the damp underground. Rosie stuck to the outer walls as much as possible, trying desperately not to get her shoes and socks wet, but failing miserably.

“Ugh. You couldn’t pick a catacomb with _dry_ maintenance tunnels? Had to pick some nasty, flooded out shithole.”

“Don’t look at me. The church wasn’t my first choice, either.”

He prepped himself for questions, but none came. She just sighed and kept moving forward, stumbling a little over a stray rock. There was a hole in the left knee of her jeans, stained slightly with dried blood. Clumsy. She was never clumsy before.

He heard her curse as her foot plunged into a small hole, soaking her jeans up to the middle of her shin. He almost laughed. A few weeks ago he would have. God, this felt so strange. They were off-balance. Out of sync.

He heard her sigh, “What?”

“What?”

“I can feel you staring at me.”

Well, yeah. But mostly he was staring at that flannel. Way too big to be a woman’s. Wasn’t his. Why was she wearing some man’s shirt? And who the fuck did it belong to? “Can’t help it. You make sewage water look good.”

She frowned at him and adjusted the pack on her shoulders, just barely grabbing the strap of her sten gun before it slipped off of her shoulder. “Would you cut that out?”

“Cut what out? I'm dead serious, Blondie. The whole ‘soaking wet right foot’ thing is really working for you.”

“You’re just— I don’t understand— Oh, just forget it.”

She turned on her heel and stomped forward until she was a good ten feet ahead of him, still sticking to the edges of the tunnel. Deacon felt a little taken aback. She just seemed so...different. The Rosie he knew never left a damn thing alone. The girl in front of him was distant. Stormy and detached. The fiery focus and intensity was gone, and in its place was a girl with unfocused eyes and no fight to speak of. 

He thought of a discarded box full of toys, collecting dust next to a crib pushed into the corner of a half-finished nursery. He thought of her fingers brushing over every toy in a dusty old storeroom, even after she’d picked out the perfect one for Duncan. He thought of her grief when she thought her baby had grown into a boy, when she thought she’d only lost ten years.

_“My son’s the director of the Institute. He’s sixty years old.”_

Her son wasn’t dead, but she’d lost him just the same. The thought of it made him want to make a complete ass out of himself and wrap her in the tightest hug this side of the Commonwealth. Even if she would shoot him in the foot after. 

“Just ask already. I know you want to.”

Deacon frowned. Ask what? Oh, right. Whatever super secret mission he was supposed to be helping her with. Got it.

“Alright, you got me. What are we doing? Where are we going? Hope it’s dangerous. You always take me to the most _interesting_ places, darling.”

Her face twitched, like she was forcibly holding something back. Also very out of character. “Well, we’re...looking for somebody. A brotherhood guy.”

Oh, _that_ got his attention. “Brotherhood hunting, huh? Not exactly my style, but hey, I’m sure this guy deserves—”

“No, no, it’s not like that. I’m...he’s in trouble.”

He frowned, “Uh...so? Let the guy stew in it. What stock have you got in the brotherhood? And your honorary knight position doesn’t count by the—”

“It’s Danse. Paladin Danse. That’s who we’re looking for.”

A burning feeling erupted in Deacon’s chest. So they were looking for Grognak McDreamypants. Great. Cool. Awesome. “Might I ask for what reason? Really can’t puzzle it out over here.”

She sighed and stopped in front of him. “He’s a synth, Deacon. Maxson found out and...they’re hunting him. The brotherhood is. Elizabeth...Scribe Haylen came to the Castle looking for me. She was so upset, she...she told me where he might be. That’s where we’re going.”

Deacon felt a sneaking feeling of doom creeping up his throat. “And how did the brotherhood find this out, exactly?”

She still had her back to him, but he could see her wringing her hands as she took a deep breath. “There were three holotapes that had all the information from my network scan of the Institute. One went to Sturges, one went to Desdemona...and one was supposed to go back to the Castle with Preston…”

Deacon’s eye twitched. Way too high profile of a target to take that kind of information back. Should’ve picked someone else. A group of initiates tailed by someone competent. The brotherhood having that kind of information…

“Oh, fuck.”

Rosie finally turned, “I know. I know! I should’ve...It wasn’t Preston’s fault—”

“No, I don’t _blame_ you, Rosie. Shit, I don’t blame Garvey either. Not in the least. It was probably a whole squad, wasn’t it?” She nodded, and Deacon ran a hand across the back of his neck, “That’s what I thought. They would’ve just shot him and taken it anyway. That’s how things operate under the Maxson regime. No mercy, no quarter. Victory at all costs.” He shook his head, “Bastards.”

She was still twisting her fingers in her hand, and Deacon felt the pull of her in his shoulders. He stayed put. “Rosie, it’s gonna be fine. We’ll find him. We can outrun brotherhood goons no problem.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“He— I don’t think he wants to be saved, Deacon.”

Oh, shit. He had a feeling he knew exactly where this was going. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t know him. He’s— he’s like a dog. Loyal to a fault. Maxson could beat him half to death and he’d still get up from the floor spouting “Ad Victoriam.” It’s less of a locate and retrieve kind of mission and more…”

“Talking someone off a ledge.”

She nodded, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “I thought...well, I thought you’d be best suited for that. Or, I don’t know, I just...thought you might know what to do.”

Well, she had him there. It was a situation he was...all too familiar with. Not that she knew that.

“Right, so you know where this guy is?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s get movin’. We’ve got a synth to save.”

He could’ve sworn her face crept into a small smile before she turned and continued through the tunnel. It filled him with more satisfaction than he wanted to admit.

~

“I think you were right, Blondie. Old military outpost with absolutely no defenses set up? This guy’s just waiting to be found.”

Rosie stood at the entrance, worrying her lip and white as a sheet. “I think...I should go in first. Alone.”

Nope. Didn’t like that one bit. “Your call, boss. I’ll whistle if I see any orange jumpsuits comin’ our way. Or would you prefer a bird call?”

She looked back at him, “Can you actually do a bird call?” 

He grinned, “Guess we’ll just have to find out.”

She shook her head, badly hiding a small smile, and crept into the concrete building. He watched her get into a worryingly decrepit old elevator and vanish behind the sliding metal doors. He waited, rifle in hand and shoulders taught, for what felt like forever. Too long. This guy was probably volatile, emotional and unstable. His actions totally unpredictable. Finding out your whole life might just be a carefully manufactured lie can do that to a person. And Deacon just let her waltz down there, all one hundred pounds of her, completely alone with a man who could probably bench press a yao guai. Fuck. How stupid could he be?

It was another, maybe, fifteen minutes when he heard the elevator ding and steeled himself against the answer to his own question, sighing in relief when Rosie appeared, only to tense right back up as he realized she was alone.

“No luck?”

She was crying. Had been crying. Silent tears ran down her red face, and her steely expression broke the moment he spoke. 

“He— Oh, god he—” She let her things drop off her shoulders and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. The feel of her head against his chest sent a wave of warmth up his spine, and boy, didn’t that prove he was a shit person.

“He did what, Rosie? What happened?” Oh, man was he ready to kick Paladin Douchebag’s ass. Just needed a reason. 

_Itching to beat up a synth, huh? Old habits die hard._

Deacon shook that thought out of his head, trying to assure himself that this was _different_ , as Rosie spoke against him.

“He’s going to— He still thinks he’s a machine! He thinks it’s his _duty_ to—” She made a small choking noise, “Before any of the brotherhood get here he’s....he’s going to carry out the mission...himself.”

Oh, for shit’s sake. Deacon placed a hand on her head as he sighed. This whole, “honor-bound dutiful soldier,” thing was a pain in the ass. Did this idiot not have a self-preservational bone in his body?

“Alright. Lemme at ‘em. I’ve got plenty of experience with newly enlightened synths.” _And assholes who are bound and determined to see themselves at the action end of a rifle._

Rosie sniffed and looked up at him, “Deacon, I...I know you don’t have any love to spare for the brotherhood, but he’s not…”

He stepped out of her arms, ignoring the protests from nearly every part of him, and tried to keep some semblance of rational thought. “He’s a synth first. We can worry about the other stuff later.”

The grateful, shockingly admirational last glance she gave him was damn close to lethal, and he had to look away before he felt the consequences of a girl like her thinking he had any moral high ground whatsoever. The elevator doors ground as they opened, and he gave Rosie a two fingered salute as they closed, never once taking his eyes off where she stood, rifle at the ready, trusting him to fix this. He had to fix this.

Preferably before a bunch of power armored jags came knocking on their door, with only Rosie there to keep them at bay. 

The inside of the outpost was cold and wet. Why, he wasn’t sure. There were two small, concrete rooms, and if he had to bet, he would guess the man of the hour was barricaded in the room to his left.

Except he wasn’t barricaded in. One of the largest men Deacon had ever seen was pressed into a corner like a kicked puppy, the room bare save a few crates and a metal chair. A dog waiting to be put down. 

“Identify yourself.”

Sheesh. Even trembling and pale, the man had a voice that could shake walls. Still had the trademark brotherhood arrogance, too. Which seemed pretty fuckin’ ballsy given the situation, but whatever. “I’m your conscience, pal. Seems you and I need to have a little chat.”

“If you fail to identify yourself I will be forced to—”

“Oh my _god_ , don’t get your standard issue tidy whities in a twist _sir paladin._ I’m a friend of...the general’s.” It felt wrong to use her name here, for some reason. Too personal. Or maybe it was some stupid male territorial posturing. Fuck it.

The man’s thick eyebrows raised, “You...were the one at the police station. Huh. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Shit. Same wig, same brown leather jacket. Probably shouldn’t have added that sneer on the word _paladin_. Sloppy, Deacon. Well, it’s not like he could go running back to the brotherhood now. 

“Look at you, sharp as a tack. Funny, I didn’t know the brotherhood toy soldiers came with IQ points. You learn something new everyday. Tell me, are batteries included?”

He sighed and rubbed a dirty hand over his forehead, “Why are you here? I told Rosie—”

 _Nope. Don’t say her name, Paladin Dickhead._ “Yeah, yeah, I know. Brotherhood loyalty and what not—”

“I have a duty to—”

“Look, pal. When I wanna hear about your doody I’ll ask, okay? I’m here because I...help people. Like you.”

Danse narrowed his eyes, “You’re a part of the Railroad. The synth-lovers.”

“You’re on a roll today, huh? Yep. That’s me. Synth lover numero uno.”

He shook his head, “You are misguided in your pursuits. Synths are abominations. Machines made to masquerade as human beings. They must be eliminated. _I_ must be…”

He trailed off, and Deacon felt a small seed of pity take root in his stomach. The paladin wasn’t talking to him. Not really. Deacon wasn’t the one he was trying to convince.

Deacon dragged the metal chair over with a loud metallic scraping and flipped it, sitting with the back of it shielding his body. Less than adequate cover but if he was gonna have a gun pulled on him today he’d rather have something standing in the way that he could throw.

“Yeah, I know that’s in the youngest Maxson’s latest monologue, but I don’t buy it.”

“You don’t _buy_ the Elder’s—”

“First of all, let’s get one thing straight. He’s not your _Elder_ anymore. Whether you like it or not, your relationship with the brotherhood is out. Donezo. She was a cold and cruel lover anyway, trust me. You’re better off. Second of all, _no_ I don’t buy it, and you wanna know why?” The paladin didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop him either, so he kept going, “I’ve seen a lot of synths like you. They’ve got whole lives. Fond memories. And then one day, poof! They find out it might all be science fiction. A whole persona cooked up in a lab. I’ll admit, most of them find out at the end of their buddy’s gun.”

Deacon watched Danse flinch. That’s a big one then. Wanted to do it himself rather than having a friend kill him. Understandable. Made his chest ache. “But some of them we intercept. A very, very small number. I would say it’s one of the hardest parts of the job. But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you? Nah, you just know the scary campfire stories. Of robots pretending to be human. Sinister android plots. You’ve never had to watch a woman be killed in front of her children, by her husband’s own shotgun, no less. You’ve never seen a man, scared and confused, be nabbed by raiders and strung up for something he can’t control.” Deacon stopped for a moment, “You ever seen a man be lynched?”

The paladin had blanched further, and slowly shook his head. Deacon tasted metal, but fuck, it needed to be said. Everything he’d always wanted to shout at the bigot mobs and the brotherhood dicks that killed without thought, all of them screaming “monster,” and a hell of a long time ago, at himself. Guess Sir Danse here would have to be on the receiving end of all that anger. “No? I can tell. Because if you had, you’d never have been able to forget it.” He enunciated every syllable, like he was trying to puncture the air with his tongue. “How many synths have you met?”

“...None.”

Danse’s voice cracked, and Deacon could’ve sworn in the low light of the bunker that there were tears in his eyes. “None. Figures. That’s probably not true, you know. Don’t mean to make you any more paranoid than you already were, but you’ve probably met one. Or more than one. Who knows? Definitely not you.”

“How....how is that supposed to make it...better?”

An honest question. Laced with fear and hate, but he could work with that. He’d worked with less. “Because they’re just like you. Every single one of them. They didn’t choose to be what they are. Most of them don’t even _know._ They bleed, they cry, they love, they live, and a lot of the time they die before they should. Just like any other human being in this god forsaken wasteland.”

“But...am I not…” He looked up, his eyes meeting Deacon’s behind the shades, and Deacon felt his heart give a small squeeze. He was so, so afraid. “...a weapon?”

“No. I’ll do ya one better. You were created as a slave.”

“But—”

“No. There’s no remote detonation, there’s no switch to flip, you’re not gonna go haywire and start massacring innocent school children. Broken mask was an isolated incident. They would never make a mistake like that again.”

They sat in silence for a full minute, Danse staring at his boots with his brow furrowed and his eyes wide. When he spoke, his voice was thick with tears.

“The brotherhood...is all I am. It’s all I’ve ever been. I’ve...I’ve spent my life trying to make myself into something. Something meaningful. And now...knowing it was all a lie…” He broke slightly, bowing his head before regaining his composure, “I started as nothing, and I’ve ended up as nothing.”

“You’re not nothing,” Deacon said, believing it just as much as he believed everything else, “You’ll never, ever be nothing. Not as long as you’re breathing. I know you probably don’t wanna hear this, what with your bootlicking tendencies and all, but you’re proof that Maxson is wrong. Every part of you. Even that stupid, dogged loyalty you’ve got going on.”

“That loyalty,” Danse said, “is the exact reason that I can’t— I can’t be the exception. I need to be the example.”

Even full of tears, his eyes held a steely determination that had that all familiar feeling of doom creeping up Deacon’s throat. He sighed and ran a hand over his stubble. 

“If I leave here...you’re going to kill yourself. Aren’t you?”

It was more statement than question. Danse's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and he slowly nodded.

Deacon sighed, “Shit, man. I’m sorry, but that’s not gonna work for me. First, this is a terrible suicide location. No offense, but it sucks. Second, I’ve got a girl up there who’s not gonna rest until she sees you step out of that elevator, and I’m not about to disappoint her. Something tells me you don’t want to either.”

Danse looked up, his eyes filled with a strange look that made Deacon want to run and hide, but he persisted, “Trust me, pal. Disappointing a face like that is downright lethal. You want that to be your last act? Disappointing the great Rosie Castavet?” Whoop. There it was. Seemed right to put it here. Packed a punch.

A small smile crept on to Danse’s face, but he didn’t look up. “She and her um...medic. Curie, I believe, send transmissions all the time. Curie more so to our physician, biologists and such, but Rosie...would send things just to check in. I never...I’ve never had anyone truly care about my wellbeing before. Once…” his brow furrowed, “Once she told me I seemed like a “square peg in a round hole.” I laughed it off. I suppose she saw something the rest of us didn’t.”

“Yeah, she does that.” Danse glanced up at him as he spoke, but quickly brought his eyes back down to the floor. Deacon felt strangely grumpy. Maybe it was this weird fondness that Danse spoke about Rosie with, or maybe it was the fact that he had no idea she was sending transmissions to the brotherhood. Here he thought she spent so much time on her pip-boy trying to beat his high score on Red Menace. 

“I can’t say...I can’t say that I’m...completely on board.” Danse looked up, “But. I will— I’ll leave with you.”

Deacon gave him a lopsided smile and hopped up from his chair. “Fan-freaking-tastic. Up and at ‘em Grognak. Now, not that I’m not totally in love with the brotherhood’s new fall fashion line, but walking around like a bright orange bullseye might not be our best option, here.”

Danse stood, and Deacon was stupidly pleased to find he still had a couple of inches on him. Definitely didn’t have the weight advantage, though. Motherfucker was built like a brick wall. “You want me out of my fatigues?”

Deacon started fishing through the old crates that were scattered around the room, starting with the ones stacked on top of the desk on the far side of the room. “Woah, pal. Slow down. I’m a delicate gentleman. I need to be wined and dined.”

“That— That’s not what I—”

“Here!” Deacon pulled out a moth eaten pair of amy fatigues and held them up, turning to face Danse. “Holy shit. Are you blushing?”

The paladin was, in fact, bright tato red. How fascinating. Too bad this one wouldn’t be sticking around. He might be more fun to poke at than Macready.

“I— I am not...you were being quite ridiculous.”

Deacon grinned, “Yeah, yeah, loverboy. Put these on. No need to strip first, no matter how much you want to.” 

He ended his sentence with a large wink, and Danse’s flush deepened. His thick brows furrowed over his grumpy face, and he roughly grabbed the fatigues from Deacon’s hands, shoving them on with a small amount of difficulty.

“They are...on the small side.”

“No fucking wonder. Guess the prewar army didn’t have a “big and tall” section. Maybe your dad was half giant or something, huh?”

Danse squirmed slightly in his impromptu disguise, “I never knew my father.”

“Oh, boy. Save it for the third date, alright loverboy?”

~

The squeal that he received as the elevator door opened made him grin like an idiot, a grin that quickly faded when she ran into Danse’s arms and he lifted her off the ground, locking her in a bear hug that probably could’ve killed anyone with the slightest of calcium deficiencies. When she finally made it back to the ground, she started babbling about the heading to the Castle and taking him to see Curie on the island, and Deacon shot her a look. But she just stared right back, with a fire that he had missed so dearly that he didn’t even try to argue. 

“We better get out of here. Whoever Maxson sent can’t be far behind.”

Danse’s expression soured with guilt as Rosie spoke, and she put a hand on his shoulder, “Hey. You’re making the right call here. The Institute has one foot in the grave with you on the front lines. And my goodness, Danse, whatever would we do without you?”

She gave him a small smile, and his face returned to solid steel. “Alright. I’ll take point.” Rosie opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand, “If we meet brotherhood forces, you flee. I stay behind. I won’t have either of you harmed on my account.”

Deacon didn’t super duper _love_ being treated like extra baggage, much less like he needed to be protected by some overgrown puppy dog, but hey, he didn’t seem like a man to argue with righ now. Besides, it’s not like he’d be joining them. Rosie’d have a solid wall of muscle by her side, and Danse could handle getting himself out of the Commonwealth. Easy peasy.

Danse readied his laser rifle and started out into the woods as Deacon started in the opposite direction. 

“Well. You two take care. Don’t forget to write. Make sure to give him food and water Rosie, maybe a newspaper for good measure—”

She grabbed him by the arm and held him there, “You’re coming with us.”

She was frowning up at him, like she was confused as to how he’d thought he was going anywhere else. One look at that face, and he was too. Her hand loosened it's grip on his jacket, but she didn't let go.

So, he let himself be led into the woods, a few feet behind Danse, and wondered how he was lucking into this. He had fucked this up. Badly. Now she...wanted him here? Maybe she was worried Danse would change his mind halfway, that she would need someone to talk him down. Maybe she—

He felt her fingers slide down his forearm and into his palm, and the sensation sent a bolt of lightning up his arm and across his shoulders. Their fingers intertwined and he wanted to close his eyes, but thought better of it. Out in the open and all that. But, _God_ he was tired. He’d been half-sleeping and catnapping too long. Turns out sleeping standing up wasn’t the best thing for beauty sleep. Her hand squeezed his and he took the first full breath he’d taken in weeks.

Alright. Now to switch into runner mode. Not about to have any brotherhood tails today. Eyes up, Deacon.

Okay. So maybe it was getting harder and harder to claim he was distracted because he had fallen for her. Because here? With her hand in his?

He felt like he could take on the world. However foolish it may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danse! Danse! Danse! Danse! Danse!
> 
> And some...sweet little moments. Even if Deacon is totally jealous. And more than a little possessive.
> 
> But don't worry! Rosie's gonna nip that in the bud. No she *wasn't* playing Red Menace Deacon, she was checking up on her brotherhood friends. 
> 
> P. S. Yes Deacon would fuck Danse. Absolutely. He'd rock that man's world. It's not even a question. Danse is *built.*


	22. How High Can You Get?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to Red Menace, one of the in-game videogames. Just wait. You'll see.

They walked like that, hand in hand, almost the entire way to the Castle. Rosie breaking off only once when a few rabid dogs crossed their path. Danse put them down with...an interesting amount of zeal, to say the most with the least, and Rosie didn’t protest. Not once. Just a small wince as each feral mutt dropped to the ground. 

And then they were in view of the Castle. The air coming off of the ocean was frigid, but her hand left his anyway as they went through the gate, as she smiled and waved to the two minutemen guarding it.

Their welcoming committee inside the courtyard was...odd. Interesting? A strange bunch, to be sure.

For one, Rosie was _very_ excited to see Preston just inside the gate, talking to two women who looked like they could rip the whole fort apart if they just looked at it wrong. The older one had half her head shaved, and her fatigues were covered with heavy combat armor spray painted with the minutemen insignia. The other, much younger redhead, donned a dark green corset and patched khakis, her steel toed boots the same color brown as the long, ankle-length coat she wore that he was _very_ jealous of, thank you very much. Danse and Deacon shared a look, then awkwardly ambled up behind her as Rosie babbled.

“So, it worked! Oh, Cait, I just knew it would. Vault-tech was responsible for some terrible things, but the technology they had at their fingertips…”

Deacon’s ears perked up, “Cait? Combat zone Cait? The very woman who’s rumoured to have taken a man’s head clean off his shoulders with just her bare hands?”

Cait gave him a grin that could only be described as wolf-like and shrugged, “That’s me, handsome.You let me know if you’d like a demonstration sometime, alright?”

“Well, you certainly clean up nice. Maybe it’s the lack of blood stains.”

Cait laughed, “Or the lack a psycho.”

Rosie cleared her throat, her face slightly pink and gestured to the pair of women, “Yes, this is Cait, and this is Veteran Commander Ronnie Shaw. The two of them have been on an...expedition, of sorts. Traveling around the Commonwealth, making sure the people in our allied settlements can defend themselves—”

“And by that she means making sure the pissant farmers don’t make a holy fuckin’ show of themselves when they can’t figure out how to load a goddamn pistol—”

Ronnie elbowed her and she quickly silenced, closing her mouth with a small click. Danse’s eyes had widened slightly at Cait’s foul language, and Deacon almost laughed as Ronnie gave the group her own sort of mission summary, “Combat training in Minutemen settlements. Important work. As well as a small outing to Vault 95. You’ll be pleased to hear, General, that it’s been completely cleared of Gunner hostiles.”

Ronnie’s voice was gruff and commanding, mostly speaking out of the side of her mouth, Rosie’s warm brightness almost a comical antithesis. “Wow. With just the two of you, huh? No small feat.” She elbowed Preston, “What a dream team, huh?”

Preston gave the group a dazzling grin that could outshine the fucking _sun_ and propped his musket againt his shoulder, “I’d say so, General. Ronnie, I’ve got some schematics I want you to take a look at in the armory, and Cait, I’ve got some green initiates in the training room that could do with, uh...well, I’ll just go ahead and say it. A good ass kicking.”

Cait clicked her tongue, “Say no more.”

The two women marched off, and Preston turned to Rosie, “As for me, General, I’d love to stay and chat, but we’ve been getting radio transmissions from Goodneighbor all morning.”

Rosie frowned, “Goodneighbor? Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am. Not at all. It just seems that...well the mayor’s paramour is...very politically active.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Says Goodneighbor’s been stagnant too long. She thinks they could’ve rivaled Diamond City by now if they weren’t constantly fighting off supermutants and the like. Wants to properly fly the Minutemen flag. Set up an outpost there and everything.”

Rosie smirked, “Has the mayor’s hat changed hands?”

Preston chuckled and looked at the floor. “She says Mayor Hancock handles internal affairs. She likes to think of the big picture. Her words, not mine.”

Rosie’s grin widened. “Well, that all sounds wonderful to me. And I agree, both Bunker Hill and Goodneighbor could’ve outtaken Diamond City in population by now, if they had adequate protection.”

“Looks like the Minutemen might be just the thing they need. Finally.” He sighed, “Anyway, I’d better get back to it. Miss...Peaches wants to be quite— uh, _thorough_ when it comes to our allyship.” He tipped his hat, “General. And...company.”

They watched him go, Deacon just barely holding back laughter, before Preston turned and called out.

“Oh! I almost forgot! You’re uh...brotherhood friend—”

“Danse!”

He was cut off by a loud scream, and another redhead woman came running from the walls of the Castle. Deacon barely recognized her without the whole cap and goggle headgear thing, but there she was. Scribe...Hayworth. Harlen. Haylen! Scribe Haylen. Talked really fast and always had a lot to do. Common among science-ey types. She barreled forward and wrapped her arms around Danse, who was immediately flustered by the affection.

“Beth! Scribe— I don’t— Where is your uniform?”

A strange observation, but accurate. She was down to a plain, maroon knit turtleneck and khaki pants, and what Deacon recognized as standard issue brotherhood boots. “You don’t have to call me by my station, anymore. I’ve...I’ve defected.”

“Scribe—” Danse shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper that did absolutely _nothing_ to smother their conversation, “Elizabeth...I would hate to think you did something so rash on my account.”

 _Sheesh, buddy. Take a hint._ The woman looked up at Danse with wide-eyed admiration and pupils that might as well have turned to hearts by now and shook her head. “Don’t. I couldn’t stay in a brotherhood that’s so quick to turn on it’s brothers. I had faith in the brotherhood because I had faith in it’s people. Because I had faith in _you._ It’s just...it was the right thing to do.”

Danse smiled, his face quickly faltering when he seemed to realize Deacon and Rosie were still standing there, an awkward audience. He loudly cleared his throat. “Well, Haylen. I’m glad you’re here. You were always a very competent member of any team.”

Oh, jeez. Fucking terrible. Is this how the tin man _flirted?_ Haylen seemed pleased as ever though, her hands balled up in her pockets as she smiled. “Thank you, _Richard._ ”

Danse turned bright red and coughed, and Rosie, seemingly unable to stand the tension anymore, broke in, making small talk and ushering them over to the docks. Deacon begrudgingly followed, wondering if he could stand meeting anymore new people today.

Turns out, it didn’t matter if he could stand it or not. He was going to, anyway.

Rosie had radioed Curie on the _incredibly awkward_ boatride over, as Danse anxiously watched Polly pilot the boat. Deacon’s joke about peg-legged pirates didn’t go over too well, and Haylen seemed perfectly pleased to ignore all of them and stare out at the ocean, smiling the whole way.

Then when they finally, _finally_ got there, Deacon was alarmed by how much had changed. Oh sure, the island _looked_ the same. He could see the white brick lab far off in the distance, and the small grouping of cabins a little closer. Mac’s cheery green house was just behind the shed to his right, and Rosie’s was just in front of him, like always. But now, there was activity. Not as deathly quiet as before. He could see a girl, no older than seventeen, with dark, bushy hair herding brahmin into the barn with the help of an obviously delighted Dogmeat. A dark skinned man was talking to Macready as they leaned against the fence-posts of the small crop field, Duncan playing with two small action figures at their feet. Mac waved when he saw Rosie, then took in the rest of the group, and Deacon _swore_ , even at this distance, he saw Macready turn red and steam at the ears.

Curie was waiting for them at the docks, spit shined penny loafers and white lab coat shining in the late afternoon sun, and grinned wide when she saw the boat arrive. She nervously fiddled with the collar of her button down and the clipboard in her hands as they docked.

“ _Bonjour!_ Greetings, new friends! We have had many communications thus far, but I do not believe we have officially met. I am Curie. Chief researcher here on the island. How do you do?”

Curie’s social niceties were getting better. Obviously some of it had been borrowed from prewar etiquette books, but still, her smiles had softened, and her movements were much less robotic and stiff. Getting used to the new body, then. Haylen gleefully took her outstretched hand and shook, but when Curie moved on to Danse, he just stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

“ _You’re_ Curie?”

“ _Oui! C’est moi!_ I do not believe we have sent transmissions back and forth, Monsieur Danse, but I have heard a great deal about you. Most of it quite impressive and praiseworthy!”

It was all Deacon could do not to snort. He knew Mac had probably given his fair share of opinions about their brotherhood guests. Hell, he had his own qualms he could dish out, too. Danse finally took her hand, face pink and slack, and she shook it with a surprising amount of vigor.

“Now, then! I will escort you to my laboratory. Madame Haylen, I do believe you will find it quite similar to the equipment available to you on board the uh...you’re ship?”

“The Prydwen?” Haylen helpfully supplied.

“ _Oui!_ Oh, it is so difficult to announce, _non?_ Right this way, friends. It is on the opposite end of the island, so I suppose I will give you a tour of it, too. A good use of our time, I believe. Over here we have…”

Curie’s voice trailed off, hidden underneath the sound of rushing waves as the three of them walked into the distance, Curie pointing this way and that as she babbled on. He hadn’t realized he was smirking until the sound of Rosie’s voice startled him out of it.

“Huh. I’ve never been ignored by Curie before. She must be excited to show off all her toys.”

Deacon stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. “Nah, I wouldn’t say ignored. Just escaped her notice is all. You brought all these new people. Got her all distracted.”

Rosie fidgeted slightly, drawing patterns with her shoe in the sand that coated the docks. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Pretty sure that’s the first time anyone’s ever said _that_ to me. Points for originality. Nah, I’m just...observing, is all.”

She stepped forward, into his personal space now. He could feel her without touching her, like a low static wherever she stood. “I think I shoved a lot of people on you, too.”

Her voice was low, barely audible above the waves. A lump formed in his throat as she stared up at him, wide blue eyes that he missed so much seeming to x-ray his face. It made him twitchy as much as it made him want to grab hold of her and never let go. “It’s uh...It’s whatever. Part of the job, you know. Intel and all that. People. Lots of people. You’re popular, you know.”

He was talking too fast. He knew that. It came out forced and rushed, and he knew she caught it too. Suddenly there was a hand on hand on his forearm, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t speak if he tried.

“I need to talk to you.”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Alarm bells went off in his head, and when he cleared his throat, it came out as a small choking noise. “Sure, yeah. Whatever you say, boss.”

She led him by the elbow up to her house, and the instant they crossed the threshold he was forcibly surrounded by _her_. Her things, her curtains, her books, her _smell_ , and every limb was screaming at him to run. He stayed put. Dropped his pack and his rifle by the door and stayed right where he was. All his cards were on the table, let’s see if he overplayed this hand.

Rosie dropped her things on the couch and turned, her face shifting slightly when her eyes landed on him, almost as if she was surprised he was still there. She fidgeted slightly with her hands, brushing her fingers over a small seam in the couch cushions as she took a few cautious steps forward. Baby steps. She didn’t want to spook him.

“I wanted to...to thank you. I don’t know what you said to Danse, but...I’m glad you were there.”

He shrugged. “No problem. Deacon’s the name, dealing with rowdy synth’s is my game.” 

He was still talking _way_ too fast. His fists were clenched at his sides, but he was worried if he released them they’d start tapping an anxious rhythm on his thighs. 

Rosie frowned, “It’s a big thing, though. I know you hate the brotherhood and you still...you still wanted to help him.”

 _No. I wanted to help_ you. _Synth saving was secondary. I’m a selfish bastard._

“Don’t worry about it. I’d do anything for…” The words got lost in his throat. For what? She was still walking towards him. Only a couple steps away now. Were his palms sweating?

“For?” She said, advancing until they were mere inches apart. If she breathed too deeply, they’d be touching, “For what?”

When Deacon spoke, it was hoarse and ragged, like he’d been screaming for hours. Maybe forced silence, words he never managed to say did just as much damage to his vocal chords.

“You.”

For a split second, they stared at each other. Then, all at once, chaos erupted.

Suddenly, her hands were on his collar, pulling him down to her and his hands were clutching at her back, frustrated by the copious amount of fabric between them as their lips locked in a kiss that Deacon tried to pour all of his unsaid words into. Rosie let out a small moan that made him bite down just a little on her bottom lip. That small action earned him another whimper that he couldn’t handle, and he hoisted her up, moving from his position pressed against the door as she wrapped her legs around his waist. One hand moved from his shoulders to his head, and there went his wig. Her fingers ran through the inch of ginger hair on the top of his head, and then he felt her nails score his scalp. He groaned and Rosie pulled back from their kiss.

“You cut it.”

“Sorry.”

She grinned, “You should be.”

They fell back against the couch, awkwardly pushing Rosie’s things onto the floor. She scooted backwards and finally tore off his leather jacket as Deacon clambered on top of her and removed his own. The shades came off next, and Rosie tore them from his hand as she pulled him down to her by the neck, pressing a small, chaste kiss to his cheek as she tossed the glasses. He sure didn’t give a shit about it, either. Not when her tongue was in his mouth, and he was on top of her, feeling heat radiate off of her body as his hands moved to untuck her stupid tee shirt from her jeans. He almost didn’t dare to touch her bare skin one his hands slipped underneath the fabric, but the warmth of it made him abandon any reservations he had as he ran his hands up her sides, hearing her hiss at the coldness of his hands. He felt her hands claw at his back as he pressed a small bite to her neck and she spoke, hushed and breathless.

“This. I want this off.”

He stopped his careful work on a blooming love bite to purr into her ear, “Right backatcha, babe.”

He felt her shiver underneath him. “Upstairs.”

He smirked and nipped at her earlobe. “Your wish is my _strong_ recommendation.”

She giggled as he moved off of her and stood. “I hate it when you say that.”

 _Evidence suggests otherwise_ , he thought as he looked at her. God, somehow she was even more gorgeous in full color. She was flushed pink, and he could already see the small marks starting to form on her neck. She moved to get up and he grabbed her by the waist, grunting slightly as he hoisted her over his shoulder. She shrieked in surprise and laughed as he carted her up the stairs.

“Oh, you brute. Every gentleman is an absolute caveman underneath, huh?”

“I keep trying to tell you, sweetheart, I’m no gentleman.” 

The door to her bedroom was already open and he made his way through, tossing her roughly on the bed as she laughed.

“Aw, that’s okay. Always wanted to be ravished by a brute, anyway. Like in the movies.”

He crawled onto the mattress and settled over her, watching her flush deepen and the coy smile on her face widen.

“Well, today’s your lucky day, princess.”

Her laugh was smothered by his kiss, and her hands feverishly moved to his back, clawing at the fabric of his shirt until he had to break away to slip it over his head. She purred as he tossed it away, her hands petting up and down his abdomen as she bit her lip. He felt his ego swell as well as a strong, possessive urge as he remembered that stupid fucking flannel she had on, and he pulled her up by it, pulling her torso almost completely upright.

“Who’s is this?”

Her pupils were blown wide as she stared at him, her face dreamy and placid in reaction to the rougher touch. Filing that for later, then. It seemed to take her a second to register the question, and when she spoke it was breathless and clumsy. “It’s Bobby’s. It’s RJ’s, baby.”

The purr on the word _baby_ with that sweet accent of hers washed away his annoyance that he was worried about stupid _RJ’s_ shirt this whole time. Her hips wiggled beneath him and she giggled, “Can’t you just take it off, already?”

He grinned and did as she asked, his hand traveling down to her waist to pull off her tee shirt as well before she stopped him.

“Deacon, I— I need to know that...I need to know that this isn’t a one time thing. That I’m not going to wake up and you’re sneaking out with a bad excuse. Or worse you just disappear on me and—”

Oh, no. No, no, no. She still thought he was going to bug out on her. Be filled with regret the morning after and vanish. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. It’s exactly what he’d done the last time. But he knew better now.

Wherever she was, that’s where he wanted to be.

“Rosie. There is no place on this whole fucking planet that I’d rather be right now. Or tomorrow. Or the next day, or the million other days after that.” He brushed a stray curl out of her face and smiled, “I’m in it for the long haul, baby.”

The corners of her lips twitched. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

She threw her head back and laughed, and Deacon pressed a kiss to her exposed throat. “You’re so fucking weird.”

She pressed her lips to his before his next smartass remark could leave him, and he pulled her hips against him, grinding slightly and earning a small whimper. She leaned back and he took his opportunity to finally get that cursed tee shirt off of her, freezing and panting in place as his eyes devoured her. And she wasn’t even fucking naked yet. Christ.

He moved back slightly to kick his shoes off and moved further on top of her before she put a hand on his chest. “Wait! I’ve gotta untie mine.”

He sighed and dropped his forehead against her shoulder, feeling her small laugh rather than hearing it. “Well you’ve gotta move over first, eager beaver. Not all of us walk around with our shoes untied, you know.”

He shifted and flopped onto his back next to her, taking in the view of her (almost) topless and untying her high tops. Even when she finally toed them off, he stared at her. Watching her skin glow in the peachy light of the sunset.

“What’re you staring at?”

She’d hopped off the bed, and was pouting at him in just her baggy pair of jeans and that lacey, barely there thing she called a bra. “Thought it was pretty obvious. Goddamn, Rosie, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Her blush deepened and crawled down her throat and chest, and Deacon’s breath caught in his chest in anticipation as she unbuttoned the fly on her jeans, shimmying out of them and exposing cotton panties with pink scalloped trim. Oh, how sweet. 

Too bad he was definitely going to have to ruin those.

“Flatterer.”

He grinned, “Not at all. Observant, yes.”

He watched her approach, cataloguing the strong, muscular legs, and those thighs that he wanted to sink his fucking teeth into. His eyes ran up her softly toned abdomen, catching on the scar near her diaphragm, before continuing to the small, perky breasts and the soft curve of her shoulders, all leading to her long neck and that beautiful face he’d missed so much. All of his thoughts halted immediately, however, as she crawled over him, pressing a small kiss to his neck that sent a shock of electricity up his back before settling on his lap, her hips wiggling over his already slightly painful erection.

“I could give you something a little more interesting to watch. If you like.”

His eyebrows shot up and his mouth went dry as any and all words immediately vanished from his brain. What did _that_ mean? Rosie took in his expression and grinned, pressing a small kiss to the tip of his nose before moving on to his neck, her lips traveling down to his collar bone and nipping at the sensitive skin there. A small, strangled noise escaped him and she looked up through his nose as she kissed a small scar on his chest. 

“You’re so sensitive.”

Her tone was playful and sweet, and he felt warmth pool in his stomach and spread, words still hard to find and hard to put together. 

“I don’t...know where to put my hands.” 

Oh, honestly. She’d reduced him to a blubbering idiot. An inexperienced idiot, no less, which he absolutely was not. 

She hummed as her lips traveled further down his torso, peppering kisses down his stomach until she met the ginger hair hidden by the waistband of his jeans, using her tongue to trace a line back up to his diaphragm that made his hips buck against her. She chuckled, “I have a feeling you’ll know what to do with them in a minute.”

And what did _that_ mean? He didn’t like feeling confused, and then at the same time, he _really fucking liked it._ Rosie pouted and pet his thighs over the denim. “You see, what confuses me is why these are still on. Mmm. You’ve got great thighs, by the way.”

Deacon hurriedly undid the fly on his jeans, “Thanks. Crushed a melon that way once.”

“Really?”

“No.”

She laughed and lifted slightly to accommodate him as he pulled off his jeans, his boxers going with them. He contorted around her and tossed them to the side and she watched them go.

“Hm. A boxer’s guy, huh? Funny, I always pegged you for—” She fell silent as she turned back around, her eyes hungrily traveling down to his cock. “Oh, wow.” She met his eyes, “Congratulations.”

He laughed in surprise, “Like...congratulations to my dick? Like, he’s made the big leagues or something?”

Her warm hand wrapped around the base of it and she rolled her eyes, “I meant more like, congratulations to _you._ You know. For said dick.”

“Oh, right. Got it. Congratulations to _me_ , _on_ my dick. You know, I’ve had a lot of reactions to my cock before, but that one might take the cake. I mean, I’ve had shocked aw, rapturous silence, sometimes a bright glowing light comes down from the heavens, but I never— Oh, _god…_ ”

Her mouth sealed around the head of his cock and his hands immediately buried themselves in her hair as she took him in further, getting about halfway down before retreating and releasing him with a small pop. She pressed a kiss to the head of his cock and smiled. 

“What were you saying?”

God, _that_ look through her lashes and her mouth tantalizingly close to where he so desperately wanted it...who gives a fuck what he was saying?

“Uh...fuck, I don’t know, Rosie.”

She purred and ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, pressing down on a particularly sensitive spot near the head of it. He groaned and tightened his hold on her hair and she smiled again, slowly petting up and down his thighs. Teasing him. She was teasing him.

“Would you...stop that. Play nice.”

She was stroking him with her hand now, not _nearly_ hard enough, mouth hovering just centimeters away from where he wanted it. “Just smiling at the pretty picture you make, baby.”

“Well, find a camera and get the fuck on with it. I’m...fuck.”

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back as Rosie hummed, “You know, I might just take you up on that.”

Deacon’s eyes shot open at that, only to roll to the back of his head as her tongue swirled around the tip of his cock and her warm mouth worked farther down his length. He let himself get lost in the sensation, small noises escaping him as he relished the feel of her tongue and her hands on his thighs, his fingers petting through her hair until he found a small scar at the back of her head. He lifted her up by the hair and tried not to get too fixated on the rope of saliva still connecting her to his cock. 

“What’s that? On the back of your—”

“Deathclaw. Power armor.”

Ah, right. Her famous Minutemen campfire tale. He loosened his hold on her hair and she wrapped her mouth back around his cock, humming slightly as she worked him. He felt her falter almost three quarters of the way down and looked down to see her brow furrowed in concentration. He almost laughed. Had to win at everything, huh?

“Rosie, Not that I don’t...mmm...appreciate the effort, but I uh…I don’t think you’re gonna achieve that particular feat. At least not... _shit_...uh, tonight.”

She released him for half a second, just barely enough time for her to utter a hoarse, “shut up,” and she was back to it, trying desperately to take him as deep as she could. Well, fuck it. Her trying didn’t hurt anything, even if he knew it was futile. He could feel it, her mouth and her throat were just too small. Her tongue did some weird, swirly thing and he groaned, grasping fistfuls of hair just this side of too hard. She moaned around his cock, and the vibration of it had him seeing stars. He felt saliva trickling down his balls, and was just starting to feel pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling like a spring when he stopped himself and pulled her up by the hair once again.

“Playtime’s over, sweetheart.”

Rosie pouted, drool coating her pink, swollen lips and painted down her chin. “Why do you keep interrupting me? A few more minutes and I would have—”

He laughed breathlessly, “A few more minutes and I would have come in that pretty mouth of yours.”

She blushed, but raised a snarky eyebrow. “Isn’t that the point?”

He grinned and pulled her down into a kiss. One of these days he’d really make her pay for that sass. He let himself believe they’d have the time. One hand stayed in her hair and the other snaked around her back, snapping the clasp of her bra open. 

Rosie gasped and sat up. “How did you do that?”

Deacon laughed, “Shut up and take it off.”

“No, really. Nobodies ever...I mean that was _fast._ ”

He watched as she tossed the lacy bit of fabric aside and flipped her onto her back. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

She wiggled underneath him and smiled. “Prove it.”

He grinned, feeling powerful and downright _giddy,_ “Gladly.”

He pinned her hands above her head and kissed her deep, positioning himself between her legs and letting her feel his length through her panties. She gasped against his mouth and he latched onto her bottom lip with his teeth, earning him a small whimper. He released her and moved on to her neck, determined to leave as many marks here as she would allow. He let himself ever so slightly grind against her, and it was barely any time at all before she was whining and squirming against him.

“I want...I want to…”

He pressed against her center and she moaned, the flush in her chest deepening. “What do you want, baby?”

“Well...uh...first,” Oh, she had a _list_ of demands, huh? “I’d really...I’d really like to touch you.”

Oh, right. He still had his hands around her wrists. Well, whatever. He wanted his hands elsewhere, anyway. He released her arms and they flew around his shoulders, holding him to her, as he pressed a kiss to her temple, “Anything else, your highness?”

A small smile spread across her lips, even as her eyes stayed shut. “Mhm.”

There was a moment of silence and he chuckled, “Well, are you gonna tell me?”

She pulled on his neck and kissed him, slow and delicate, her hips grinding against him. Deacon groaned slightly at the movement before she released him and whispered against his mouth, “Would you please just fuck me already?”

Deacon grinned, even as he panted. “Oh, baby. That isn’t even next on the list.”

A whine escaped her throat that he ignored, gently kneading her left breast and pressing agonizingly slow kisses from her neck down her stomach, stopping to pay extra love and attention to the scar in the middle of her abdomen. He felt her tense when he finally got to her panties, only to pass them over completely and move on to her thigh. Man, oh man, he was marking up her thighs for _sure._ These things were a work of art. Needed a pop of color, though.

She barely let him get on with the second bite though, before she interrupted. “You trying to paint yourself a map down there, Deacon, baby?” Rosie said breathlessly, “Let me help you out...just a little bit to your left. _Please._ ”

He nipped hard on the sensitive skin of her thigh and she squeaked. “Don’t call me...Use my real name, baby.”

He looked up at her and realized she was smiling, wide and cheerful. Odd. “Fair trade, huh? Okay, how’s this? Take my panites off, _Johnny._ ” She purred out his name, and he pressed his cheek against her thigh, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from her face. Rosie stuck out her bottom lip, “Pretty, pretty please?”

He kissed just below her navel and dragged his stubble along her skin, watching with monumental satisfaction as she shivered and bit her lip.

“Well, since you asked so nicely and all.”

He hooked his fingers around her panties and pulled them off of her, Rosie wiggling both to help in the effort and from pure excitement. Deacon settled between her legs, finding her already slick and glistening in the fading orange sunlight.

“Wow. Look at you, baby. We haven’t even _done_ anything and you’re already dripping wet.”

He watched a muscle near her throat jump, “You’re not the only one who likes to watch.”

His eyes widened in realization. “You mean you’re this wet just from sucking me off? Damn. Wonder how far I could get just talking to you like this, huh?”

His voice was breathless and he struggled to keep his composure, but he could see the way he was affecting her all the same. Rosie whined and tried to wiggle her hips down to meet him, but he held them in place.

“Johnny, _please_ …”

He ran his tongue along her folds and smiled at her loud gasp, “Please what?”

“Please...sir.”

He froze in place and felt his cock twitch. Holy _shit._ He’d all but forgotten about that. And it was definitely...not the response he was hoping to get, but fuck if this wasn’t ten times better. He could have a shit ton of fun with this.

Rosie whined and he brought himself back to the present, leaning down and just barely teasing his tongue against her clit. “Good girl.”

She moaned and rolled her head backwards and he grinned. That was a good one, then. Powerful anyway. He sunk a finger into her heat and she gasped, desperately trying to scoot her hips downwards. Deacon held one hand on her hip and tutted.

“Greedy, greedy. Is this not enough for you, baby?”

“Please...fuck...just—” She groaned and rolled her hips, desperate for any kind of stimulation. He finally took pity and added a second finger, and she gasped as he started making slow, tiny circles over her clit with his thumb. She softly cried out in relief from the anticipation and rocked her hips against his hand, matching the rhythm of his thumb. He slowly curled the two fingers inside of her until he found the small bundle of nerves that made her buck her hips against him, making beautiful, whimpering noises as he slowly built up a maddening rhythm with his fingers.

He finally tore his eyes away from the gorgeous sight she made, her whole body flushed pink, grinding against his hand with her eyes shut, and resumed his painting, biting and sucking on the flesh of her left breast until a pretty little bruise bloomed there. A moan turned into a small whine and he pressed his thumb against her clit, interrupting her rhythm as she let out a soft cry. Her flush had gone deeper, and the movement of her hips turned slightly frantic as her thighs trembled and he continued to curl his two fingers, continuously pressing on the spot that made her hips jerk.

“You’re close, aren’t you baby? I can feel it.”

She nodded feverishly, “Uh huh.”

Oh, fuck that was hot. Breathy and half moan. Her nails scratched the skin of his back and he relished in the slight burn of it. He could feel the pressure building inside of her, and wondered if he could tip her over the edge with just his words.

He continued the agonizing rhythm of his hands as he leaned low and whispered into her ear, the small mews she was making going straight to his dick. “I know you are, baby. So, so close.” Shit, even he was panting, and she wasn’t actually _doing_ anything to him, “I know you can do it for me, baby. I want to see it. I want to...fuck, I wanna see you come all over my hand. Come on, Rosie. I wanna taste you.”

And that did it. He felt the pressure snap as she cried out, and her pussy clamped down on his fingers, a warm rush and she was dripping all over his hand. He gently curled his fingers as she rode the aftershocks, cursing under her breath and making small, pouty noises. He had catalogued her reaction, the exact moment her climax had overtaken her. The rushed, hurried thrashing of her hips, the way the flush of her chest deepend to a bright crimson, how her thighs shook and her teeth bit down on her lower lip to try and stifle her loud cry, which miserably failed, by the way. He wanted to see it again. And again, and again. This time specifically though, he wanted to see her eyes. _Needed_ to.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Johnny…”

God, the way she said his name. His real name. Especially since it was the only fully coherent thing she’d said since she came. She had stilled finally, save the heaving of her chest, and he removed his fingers, making the biggest show he could of licking his hand clean as she watched, her eyes dark and hungry. Shit, she was practically _drooling._

“See, how come you get to do that and I didn’t even get to taste you.”

He almost choked. “ _What did you say?”_

She smiled, like she always did when she knew she’d thrown him for a loop. “You heard me.”

She even folded her arms. Pouting like he hadn’t been knuckle deep inside her like, two minutes ago. “I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. Promise.”

She grinned and her eyes flashed to his dick. “You better.”

Oh ho ho? Awfully bold, if he did say so himself. And...hot. Very, very hot. “You’re...I mean, you’re ready to—”

“Why, did you want to finish your crossword first? Yeah, baby. I’m ready.”

He kissed her bent knee and moved over her, watching her eyes light up with excitement. “First of all, I’m more of a sudoku man. And second of all, you better watch your mouth, dollface. You hate being teased almost as much as you like to be one.”

She stuck out her bottom lip and gazed up at him, purposefully giving him the one look that could probably get to him to carve out his own heart and give it to her on a silver platter and he sighed. She totally had him. He was wrapped around her little finger. And honestly? Right now? He was totally fine with it.

The pout continued as she wiggled her hips like a red flag in front of a bull. “Yes _sir._ ”

Her tone dripped with brattiness, but he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck in this moment. He slowly ran his length along her folds, coating himself in her juices, and the sass all but melted away. He chuckled darkly as he slowly breached her.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Whatever little quip she was about to throw out dissolved into a needy hum as he eased into her. Deacon hissed at the feel of it and tightened the grip he had on her hips. “Fuck, baby. You’re so tight. So...oh, shit.” She whined as he allowed himself a few shallow thrusts, meeting resistance pretty quickly. “You’re gonna have to relax for me, sweetheart.”

Her brow was furrowed once again in concentration as she tried to wiggle down his length. “I know, it’s...it’s okay. Keep going.” He raised one eyebrow and she carded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “I, um...I like being a little...extra full.”

“Rosie, I don’t want to—”

“Please? I’ll tell you if it’s too much, I promise. I just...fuck, I need you, baby.”

Yeah, okay, that definitely got him moving. Almost unconsciously. He cautiously pushed his hips forward, and if her moan was any indication, yeah, she did like being a little...how did she put it? _Extra full._

It took a minute or two, but he managed to fully sheath himself inside of her, entwining their fingers and pinning her hands above her head as he bottomed out. Rosie was panting, hard.

“You’re so...fuck, you’re so big, John.”

He just barely managed not to buck into her as she said it, breathless and reverent. “Is it too much?”

“No! No, it’s so good, baby. Please. I need you...I need you to…”

He started slowly pumping into her, and immediately she dissolved into a puddle of moans and whines. “You need me to what, sweetheart? I can’t hear you.”

He rolled his hips and a soft cry left her lips, “Fuck me, Johnny. _Please._ Pretty please?”

He risked a sharp thrust into her and she moaned, her eyes rolling back into her head as he picked up the pace. He slowly released her arms and she wrapped them around his neck, clinging to him as he thrusted into her. Her head was thrown back, throat open and exposed as he reached between them, just barely ghosting his finger in circles around her clit, and he felt her pussy spasm slightly around his cock. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby. So hot and tight. This is what you wanted, huh? You wanted me to fill you up, didn’t you?”

“Yes! Oh, fuck. Harder, baby. I need it...Oh, god. I need it harder.”

He was panting, now. His chest heaving as he pulled her knees over his shoulders, burying himself even deeper within her and letting his control slip ever so slightly. The downright _salacious_ sound of him pounding into her filled the room, mixing with her cries as she fell back against the mattress, shaking and ragdoll limp in his hands.

He ran his eyes down her body, watched sweat bead and drip down her skin, watched as he impaled her, her own juices dripping down her thighs, making them slick. 

“Oh, I wish you could see this, baby. I can’t...fuck...I can’t stop staring at your pretty pink pussy making a mess all over my cock.” He felt her pussy start to tighten around his dick and looked up to see Rosie’s eyes closed, lost in the sensation of it. God, he wanted to overwhelm her. He loved that he was turning her into a screaming mess against the mattress. “Eyes on me, Rosie.”

Rosie obeyed, her face slack and dreamy as she stared at him with dark, glassy eyes. He wanted to burn that image into his brain. 

“I know you’re close, sweetheart. I need you to look at me. Don’t look anywhere else.”

“Don’t stop. Please, _please_ don’t stop.”

“I’m— _Fuck._ ” The pressure was building at the base of his spine. He was excruciatingly close as well. “I need to see you come, darling. Please.” Holy shit. Did he just say _please?_ Not that she knew, of course, but it usually took some...iron fisted direction to get him to say anything _close_ to that. But seeing her undone, laid bare and completely vulnerable beneath him, shit, it just did something to him. Something big.

He felt flames licking the bottom of his stomach and groaned. “I’m...Rosie, where...where do you want me to—”

“Inside me. Come inside me. I need to...I need to feel you...oh, _god!_ ” 

He didn’t have time to register her request before she shook violently in his hands, her pussy spasming before clamping down on his cock. He pressed his thumb against her swollen clit and Rosie thrashed in reaction to the overstimulation, tears streaming down her face and into her hair. The pressure on his cock became excruciating as his own release came right after, erupting inside of her with a low moan.

"Fuck. Good girl. Good girl, Rosie, shit..." He kept muttering it under his breath, chanting praise as they both rode out the aftershock. Her knees fell off of his shoulders and he pulled her to him before collapsing on top of her, his head on her chest as her pussy rippled around him. The sound of their panting mixed and filled the room, but otherwise, they just layed there in hushed, beautiful silence.

Deacon raised up after a few minutes spent catching his breath, trying to regain any sense of thought whatsoever as he slowly slid out of her. Rosie grumbled at the loss and he looked up, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Are you alright?”

Rosie hummed, her face creeping into a smile as she stared at the ceiling. Her legs were still trembling, and he ran soothing hands up and down the soft flesh there. Suddenly she started giggling and Deacon frowned.

“You’re uh...you’re pretty good at that, you know. Guess they don’t,” she snorted, “guess they don’t call you Big D for nothin’ huh?”

He suddenly realized he was grinning, too. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who calls me that.”

“Well there you have it!” Her giggles bordered on delirious, “I have a sixth sense about these things, you know.”

She opened her arms and he fell into them, her soft laughter still dancing in her chest. Deacon sighed as her fingertips moved through his hair, his eyelids suddenly feeling way too heavy. Shit, when was the last time he slept? Like, actually slept? He felt a kiss on the top of his head and smiled against her skin as his eyes closed.

“Missed you…”

“I missed you too, darling.” Deacon suddenly decided he would never get tired of hearing the soft vibration of her voice in her chest. “Hey! Falling asleep on me, already? It’s like, seven thirty.”

“Tired.”

“Yeah…” The petting of his head became slightly more delicate, and her other hand started tracing shaped across his shoulders. The tenderness of it all had him...slightly emotional. “You look tired.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, hush. You just...have me worried is all. You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

Deacon responded in a sing-songish town, sounding dreamy and far off even to his own ears. “That’s the goal!”

Suddenly her soft hands were lifting his head off of her chest, tilting his face until he was staring straight into her eyes. “Honey, no. You can’t...you can’t just run yourself into the ground. What would...I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Her eyes welled up with tears, and Deacon scolded himself for saying something so stupid. Stupid and insensitive and...stupid. Yeah, okay. He needed a nap.

“No, no, no, Rosie. I— I’m not going anywhere. I was just— I’m tired. It was a stupid thing to say.”

“Yeah, it was! I love you, you big dummy. You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

“Oh, man. That’ll be the day.” Cool. If he could _stop_ letting every word that entered his brain fall out of his mouth, that’d be great.

Rosie narrowed her eyes, “I’ll _make you._ You hear me? I’ll make you slow down for a damn second if it kills me.”

He sighed dreamily and leaned into her hands, his eyes threatening to close of their own accord. “Hey.”

“Hey, what?”

“I love you, too.”

Rosie smiled and opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by loud, hurried knocking coming from downstairs, a muffled voice calling out her name.

“Shit. It’s RJ.”

Deacon groaned loudly and rolled on to his back. Rosie giggled and slid off of the bed, and Deacon felt his ego swell as she wobbled a bit on unsteady lugs, rushing to find her clothes that had been tossed about the room. He watched her grumpily as she pulled on her panties, and her jeans, and started searching around for her bra, growing frustrated as she searched.

“Ugh. Where the fuck is it?”

Deacon grumbled. “Not tellin’.”

Rosie shot him a look and tutted. “Well, whatever. Don’t need it, I guess.”

Deacon watched as he pulled on her tee shirt. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got great tits, you know.”

She laughed, “Thanks a million, babycakes. Now get under that quilt and take a goddamn nap.”

Rosie smiled down at him as he awkwardly shimmied under the covers and slipped out of the room. The cold wood feeling odd on her bare feet. Macready started knocking again and she yelled out, “I’m coming! I’m coming. Keep your pants on.”

She swung open the door to find a red faced Mac standing on her porch, his foot tapping out an angry rhythm against the wood and his arms folded.

“Please, come save me. Get your school yard crush and get out here. Somehow Curie roped me into her stupid _tour_ and if I have to spend one more second with that overgrown _blockhead_ I think I might— What’s wrong with your neck?”

Rosie thought her cheeks were going to burst into flame. “What? Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes in concern, “No, you’ve got some sort of rash…Might be—” His eyes widened and he let out a gasp in disbelief, “Rosie Castevet, is that a _hickey!?_ ”

Her hands flew to her neck, “What!? No, of course not! It’s—”

“Oh my god! It is! You’ve got...one...two...three of them!” His nose wrinkled in disgust, “Oh, no. No, no, no. You _didn’t_.”

For some reason, Rosie couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence. Maybe it was the very naked man she had in her bed only a few steps away. “I don’t— You’re being— I don’t even—”

“Awww, you _did_ , didn’t you? He’s up there right now isn’t he?” 

“...Maybe.”

“ _Rosie!_ You don’t even have a bra on, you deviant! Have you no shame? No decency? _Deacon?_ ” He leaned over the railing of the porch and pretended to vomit in her flower bushes.

Rosie folded her arms over her chest, “Hey! Keep your eyes in your skull why don’t you? And I don’t really need judgement from _you_ about my...exploits. A little birdie told me about you and a certain ghoul mayor.”

She watched Mac’s ears turn pink and he glared up at the second floor, “If I didn’t know he was probably naked up there I’d _beat his ass._ ”

“Oop. Naughty words.”

“And besides,” he said, his face turning smug, “some people would call that an _achievement_ , thank you very much.”

Rosie scoffed, “What, being a part of Hancock’s harem?”

“Try being reigning king of the harem. Oh, I could tell you all _sorts_ of stories, Rosie—”

She held up a hand, “Blegh. Stop. Truce. I won’t talk about... _this..._ and you don’t talk about... _that_.”

He shrugged, strolling lazily off the porch, “Fine...fine...I’m just sayin’, if your boy toy up there ever wants to consult with a _real_ professional…”

Rosie groaned as he retreated back towards the fields, grinning like an idiot the whole time. She slammed the front door in frustration, wishing for a moment that Deacon was there next to her, throwing out something snarky to wipe that smug smile off Mac’s face. The man had a gift, truly. Even if that gift was knowing the perfect way to push someone’s buttons. He knew how to push her buttons too, in a very...different way.

She felt her cheeks warm and laughed at herself. What was she doing, blushing down here when he was laying perfectly undone upstairs?

She trotted up the stairs, slipping into the bedroom to find a gorgeous picture. Deacon, half hidden by quilts, sleeping silently on his stomach, the angry red lines across his back glowing prettily in the low evening light. She approached and ran cool fingers across his back, Deacon just barely stirring in reaction to her touch. Rosie smiled. She could sit here and watch him all day.

But she was tired of being in jeans, and it had been a long, emotional roller coaster of a day, to say the least. She reluctantly left her seat on the bed and retreated into the bathroom, stripping in front of the mirror and checking herself over, hoping to avoid any...further embarrassment. She tutted as her finger traced the three lovebites along the line of her neck, her eyes following to the two across her left breast and finally blushing deep as she discovered two on the inside of her right thigh. Goddamn that man...must have some sort of, whatever you call it, oral fixation. She didn’t think she’d ever had this many hickeys at one time.

She shivered and brought herself back to the present. As much as she’d love to crawl into that bed and be against his skin with nothing separating them, September was becoming quite the bitch, and the chilly air had goosebumps crawling up her arms. She tiptoed back into the room, plucking the shirt Deacon had been wearing from the floor and slipped it on. There. Much better. It was like a soft, Deacon-scented, nightgown.

She slipped into the opposite side of the bed, feeling his warmth radiating from where he lay, peaceful and silent. She ran her fingertips across his head and he stirred, and she internally scolded herself. He needed to sleep.

“Hey.”

So that’s what he sounded like when he’d actually slept a little. The gravelly tone sent a small tingle through her chest. “Sorry. I woke you up.”

“‘M a light sleeper.” He flipped over and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her stomach. “Get your pipboy.”

She tilted her head in confusion but obeyed, stretching slightly to grab it from the bedside table. “Why?”

“Someone’s been lying to me.” God, that sensation was delicious. His head in her lap as he spoke, the words mumbled against her tummy. “I don’t think my first place spot in Red Menace has been earned with honor.”

Oh, _Danse._ “Damn. Big mouthed paladin.”

“Yeah, yeah. Start her up, missy. I wanna win fair and square.”

She started up the game, small beeps and melodies filling the room as Deacon once again sunk into sleep. He didn’t snore, in fact he made hardly any noise at all. Never squirmed, either. He just breathed slow and deep in her lap, looking more at peace than she’d ever seen him.

And she didn’t just knock him off his first place spot. She took first, second and third high scores. Just to send the point home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut! I wrote smut! Someone get me my badge!
> 
> No, but in all seriousness, I hope you enjoyed it. I've never written...uh...*sexy spicy times* before, and I really tried to do it justice.
> 
> Also, if you didn't catch it, Bumble and Joseph have arrived! A lot of new people all at once. Deacon will actually meet them very shortly, don't worry.
> 
> As always, let me know what you guys think!


	23. Those Are My Good Jeans.

When Deacon finally awoke, he was wrapped in Rosie’s arms, her head nestled just below his chin and their legs entwined. For once, it didn’t scare the shit out of him. He felt safe. Comforted.

Even those stubborn knots he could never seem to get out of his shoulders had seemed to unwind, just barely. The tightness there was gone, at least. He felt soft, dreamy and pliant. Like her loving attention had soothed him more than hot water ever could. And how could it not? Even now, snoring softly in her sleep, she looked like an angel. Her golden hair splayed out at odd angles, and her beautifully pink skin all aglow against the white of his shirt. _His_ shirt. He had his very own work of art sleeping next to him, drooling on his shoulder.

He laid there for a long time, content to feel her breath against him, watching the sunlight crawl slowly across the floor as he held her there, until Rosie finally stirred, cuddling closer to his chest and letting out a small sigh.

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Good morning, angel.”

She stretched like a cat, sniffing slightly and looking up at him with heavily lidded eyes. "Good morning."

"How are we feeling?"

Her arms tightened around him as she mumbled, "Happy." 

Deacon smiled. "Glad to hear it." He shifted slightly and started slowly petting her hair, “You want to...uh...talk about last night?”

“Hm?”

Shit. This was...an awkward sort of quandary. “Well, where it...ended. I mean, where we— Fuck. Where I...finished.”

“Where you…?” Her eyes widened in understanding, “Oh! You mean—” She broke into giggles and wiggled upwards until they were eye to eye. “Probably spooked you a little bit, huh?”

“It would’ve,” He said, rolling onto his back and taking her with him, “but I was a bit distracted, you know, at the time.”

Rosie giggled, tracing the white lines spread like lightning bolts across his left shoulder, “I guess I probably should have told you _before_ , but....well it never really came up, and then everything moved so quickly and—” She flushed pink and shook her head, “Well...when I first met Curie she asked me what the world needed, or was lacking medically, I suppose. Mac and I told her as much as we could, and then I...well I told her I had no earthly idea how women...because you see at that point I’d only just had Shaun a few months ago and...well, long story short, I may be acting as a guinea pig for Curie’s attempt at contraceptives.”

Deacon just stared at her, “Oh, right. Silly me. Of course. How obvious.”

Rosie laughed, “It’s true! She got it down remarkably quickly, too. Said she had all sorts of protocols for “medical upkeep” after her primary objective was finished that she never got to use.”

Gibberish. Absolute gibberish. “Rosie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smiled, “Gee, it’s a good thing you’re pretty. You don’t have to worry, is all. Curie the once-robot genius gives me a shot every month and boom! I’m baby proof. Ain’t nothin’ that sucker,” She glanced downwards and Deacon laughed, “can do about it.”

“I’ll sing her praises from the rooftops.”

“You’d better.” Rosie smiled softly and traced her fingers down his chest, stopping and circling around three faint lines a few inches below his collarbone. “I want to know about all of these. I know this one.” She tapped his left shoulder, “Buckshot. Hurts when it rains.”

“Correctamundo.”

She pressed a kiss to the three lines across his left pectoral muscle, “So, what’s this one?”

“Feral jumped on my back. Scratched the shit out of me. Feral scars never heal right. Don’t know what it is.”

Rosie hummed and moved further down, this time stopping at the strange pattern near his ribs. “And this?” 

He thought for a second, “Uh...oh! Dog bite, I believe. Thought the damn thing was hurt or something and then it pounced on me.” Rosie was looking up at him, grinning like an idiot and he rolled is eyes, “Yeah, yeah. I know. Had heart where I shoulda had brains and all that.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She pressed a kiss to the spot and looked back up, “That’s an interesting turn of phrase, by the way.”

Deacon ripped his eyes away from her and looked at the ceiling. He’d always thought so. Even when his mother was yelling it at him, arms folded and the fire in her eyes that he always found more comforting than frightening. It wasn’t a problem when _she_ yelled. It was always out of love. Trying to drive something into that thick skull of his. His father on the other hand…

But Rosie didn’t know any of that. For the longest time, he didn’t want _anyone_ to know that. With distance came safety. The longer he kept someone at arm’s length, the longer they stayed alive. And childhood anecdotes weren’t usually a recipe for casual acquaintanceship. 

But she was different. This was different. It _had to be_ different.

“It’s something my mom used to say.”

He felt her freeze against him, even as he refused to look at her. She understood what he was trying to do. That was an offering. A meager one, compared to all the things she’d told him, but it was a start. A terrifying, barely there start.

He felt her start to move upwards and closed his eyes. He really was a coward. That was _nothing_ and he couldn’t even look her in the eye.

But then there were warm lips on his, there for a moment and gone as she peppered kisses down his torso, stopping at what he knew were the ghost of several, barely inch long gashes near his hips.

“And these?”

It was barely a whisper, and he winced at the sweet, cajoling tone. “Um...laid on glass. Broken lightbulb, probably. Hurt like hell.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say there was a time when my standard protocol for coursers wasn’t fighting back. It was playing dead. Even if there's glass buried an inch into your skin.”

There was a soft kiss against his hip, “I’m sorry.”

He reached down and pet her hair. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill my friends.”

Woah. He hadn’t really meant to share that little thought. She got him, alright. Got him naked and got him in her bed and got him to spill his guts. Although, to be fair, to anyone else this would probably be pretty basic “share with your friends,” level stuff. Except he kept trying to tell himself, and everyone around him, that he didn’t actually have friends. He had assets. Assets and enemies.

Kinda hard to pull that gag now, though.

Rosie set her head against his shoulder. “That wasn’t the Switchboard, was it?”

“Nah, it was...shit, a hell of a long time ago.”

“Just doesn’t feel like it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut again and pressed a kiss to her forehead, speaking against her skin. “No. It sure doesn’t.”

Rosie tilted her head up and met his lips, locking him in a kiss that was shockingly gentle. He returned it, his hand buried in her hair and the other curling around her waist, pulling until she was fully on top of him. Then her tongue was teasing at his lips and he opened them for her, losing himself in the sensation of her tongue exploring his mouth. She broke off suddenly and a small, desperate noise left his throat, his mouth hanging slightly open as he breathed heavily. She traced the line of his lips with her thumb, the touch so soft it tickled, and stared at him with glassy, dark eyes. Enraptured by the sight in front of her. To know that he was inspiring that dumbstruck look was...overwhelming.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Oh, shit. He really, _really_ didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I, uh...I think that’s...I think that’s my line.”

His voice cracked and he cursed the wind that he couldn’t keep himself together. There was even a prickling at the back of his eyes that he blinked back, swallowing the lump in his throat before he completely embarrassed himself. 

Rosie smiled and kissed his nose, “That hasn’t been said to you _nearly_ enough.”

“I’m...pretty sure it’s never been said at all.”

“That’s a damn shame.”

Deacon took hold of her hair and kissed her hard, just as much hiding as he was desperately trying to return the sentiment. She moaned slightly into his mouth and he flipped her over, his mouth moving to her neck as his hands slipped underneath her shirt, exposing her stomach and the small patch of curls that he felt he didn’t pay nearly enough attention to the night before. Rosie whimpered as he kissed down the valley of her breasts through the fabric, moving on to the exposed flesh of her tummy.

“Deacon…”

He nipped at the sensitive skin just below her belly button, “Not my name, gorgeous. Not here.”

“I know but—” She was cut off by a loud gasp as he licked a line up to her diaphragm, “We...we can’t.”

Deacon frowned and kissed just underneath her still mostly concealed breasts. “Why not?”

“I’ve got to...there’s so much to do. It’s already eight o’clock…”

He had slipped a hand under the bundled fabric of her shirt, _his_ shirt, and was softly kneading her breast. “Let ‘em wait.”

“But I’ve already...everyone’s so displaced and...I don’t want to...oh, _fuck_ …”

Deacon was ignoring her, softy suckling on her breast, his teeth just barely adding a light pressure. He felt her thighs tighten around him as he bit down slightly on her nipple and she squeaked in surprise, her back desperately trying to arch up under his weight. His mouth moved to her neck as he grinded slightly against her hip.

“We...we can’t…”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Rosie wiggled her hips in frustration. “I…”

She fell silent, and he nibbled a bit on the sensitive skin of her neck. He chuckled to himself, realizing she was gonna have a hell of a time covering all these bites up. The thought of it had heat pooling and spreading through his stomach and he moved quickly to take that heat out on her thighs, kissing up from her knee on the sensitive skin on the inside of them. 

He spoke in a low growl against her soft flesh, “Did I tell you how much I love your thighs? Like good _god._ ”

“You...you think so? I always thought they were kinda...chubby.”

Deacon looked up and frowned. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He watched her blush and look away. “Don’t look at me like that. I just...never liked them is all. Girls in my day all wanted to be slim and—”

“Rosie, are you kidding? You know how long I’ve fantasized about these works of _art_ wrapped around my head?”

Rosie gasped, “ _Deacon!”_ He pinched her thigh and she squealed, “I’m sorry! None of my bed partners have had a stupid code name before. It gets confusing.”

He smiled, “Aw, don’t worry. I forgive you.” He spread her thighs further with his hands, exposing her pussy, still pink and swollen from the night before. He grinned, “Damn, baby. Look at you. So wet for me already.”

She wiggled enticingly, just managing to stifle a small moan, “Just for you, darling.”

Oh, what a wicked girl. She _absolutely knew_ that was gonna get him going. He pressed into her heat as a sort of reward, licking in long, slow strokes across her folds and felt every ounce of tension in her body melt away. God, he loved that he could do that to her. Loved that he could do this _for_ her. He greedily lapped at the warm honey slowly dripping off of her and heard a happy trill from above him as she nestled a hand in his hair. Her hips were making small little movements against his mouth and he smiled, sucking her swollen clit into his mouth as she bucked against him and let out a small, almost frustrated cry. Even in her dreamy, pliant state she was greedy. 

He lifted her hips off the mattress and changed his angle, her body completely limp in his hands. Her skin was turning that delicious shade of pink that he loved so much, and soft mews escaped her lips as her hand cradled his head. 

For some strange, unknown reason, he felt safer than he’d ever felt in his entire life.

Her body grew restless and her soft cries turned frustrated as her hips rolled against his mouth. He made deep, soothing rumbly noises against her and she shivered, her thighs squeezing on either side of his head. Fuck, he wanted that pressure. Wanted to feel it snap within her. He just barely scraped his teeth against her clit and that did it, a warm rush and suddenly she was dripping, creamy liquid dripping down his chin and coating his tongue as he lapped at her, hungry and greedy. He heard a small hiss and looked up to see Rosie, shivering through her orgasm with her face screwed up in...pain? Why on earth would she be in pain?

He hurriedly left his beloved spot between her legs and scooped her up, cradling her head in his hand and staring into her eyes with concern. He tried to ignore the beautifully punch drunk way she was looking at him, pupils blown wide and full of stars as she took in his face. He’d never get used to someone looking at him like that.

“Rosie, what’s the matter?”

She parted her lips, words getting stuck on her tongue as she held onto his shoulders. “You...you look…”

He brushed the hair out of her face and furrowed his brow. “Rosie, please—”

_You look fucking gorgeous,_ Rosie thought as she surged forward, catching his mouth and tasting herself on his lips. The small pain in her belly all but forgotten as she devoured him, feeling absolutely ravenous. But then, as abruptly as it started, he pulled her away by the hair, gentle but forceful. God, why was he always stopping her? She wanted _more_ of him. Always more.

“Rosie, did I hurt you?”

Oh, _that’s_ why. Poor, sweet man. His eyes were wide with concern as he held her, and Rosie wanted nothing more than to simply melt against him. But he wasn’t going to let her. She didn’t want to be held back anymore. She wanted to bask in his attention like the pool of light he was, and make him feel the same. If he’d just _let her_.

“Answer me, sweetheart.”

She tried to get her brain to put words together, which in her current state, seemed almost impossible. “I, um...no, you didn’t hurt me. I’m just...just a little sore is all.” The furrow between his brows deepened and she pet soothing hands along the muscles of his arms. “It’s no biggie.”

“It’s no— So, I did hurt you.”

“No! No, it’s just...you know, been awhile. And I told you, I like being, um...pushed a little.”

The hand in her hair was rubbing soothing circles at the base of her skull and he sighed. “I knew I should’ve gone slower.That was stupid, I should’ve—”

Rosie pouted and crawled further into his lap. “I didn’t wanna go slower.” He gave her a disbelieving look that, with those icy blue eyes bare and bathing her in sharp attention, nearly took her breath away. She tried to collect herself and gave him a fiery look back. “I’m not made of glass, Johnny. I said I would tell you if it was too much. Do you trust me?”

She watched him struggle. She knew that was a big question, even if she threw it into the air with deliberate nonchalance. But her heart nearly glowed when he nodded, those overly bright eyes filled with anxiety. He was _trying._ That’s all she needed from him. They would get there. Not overnight, but they would. Together.

Rosie smiled sweetly, trying to melt the slight bit of fear still present in his face. “Good.” She ran her hands across his shoulders and tutted. “Look at that. All my hard work undone.” He frowned at her and her smile turned into a pout, “You’re all tense again. A girl spends all night trying to get her fella to relax a little, then he gets himself all wound up.”

“Wound up over you,” he said, muffled as he nestled himself in the crook of her neck. 

Rosie smiled and continued to run soothing hands over the tense muscles in his shoulders, leaning close to speak against his ear, “My poor baby’s all tied up in knots.”

She felt his grip tighten and squeeze around her as his head rolled slightly against her neck and she smiled to herself. She was doggedly determined to take care of him. Even if she had to be sneaky about it. All the stories he told and the one’s she heard from Dez and Glory all confirmed exactly what she’d been thinking since she first met him. He’d spent his whole life taking care of people. Having backup plans for backup plans, and blaming himself for anything and everything that went wrong. Dez had told her that no one would’ve made it out of the Switchboard if it wasn’t for him, and Rosie knew he blamed himself for every body they had found in that awful place. And that courser story he had let slip? It was a wonder he hadn’t collapsed under the weight of his own guilt. 

A man who was born to carry more than he could possibly hold. It made her heart hurt. But she could help with that. She was going to lift some of that weight even if he drove her nearly insane as she did it. And by god, he was going to take a nap once in a while.

One problem at a time, though. He had been unrecognizably relaxed when they had woken up together, and Rosie was dead set on getting him back there. Luckily, she was pretty sure she knew how to do that.

Rosie started pressing slow kisses down his neck, stopping to give extra love to that spot near his collarbone that had sent him into a tizzy last night. He shivered as a muscle in his throat twitched, and Rosie smiled, seeing her mission accomplished and nibbling back up his throat, feeling his quickening pulse against her lips. She pushed a hand against his chest as she whispered against his ear, “Lie back, darling.” He shot her a look and she giggled, “Trust me, remember? Just relax.”

He grinned and fell back slowly against the mattress, watching her hungrily as he held her around the waist. “Oh, I'm a picture of relaxation. I couldn't be more relaxed if I had a piña colada on a beach somewhere. Why? Do I not look relaxed?”

Rosie smiled and peppered kisses down his torso, lingering around each scar she found on the way down. “Don’t worry. I’m about to make it a lot easier.”

She heard a dark, almost exasperated chuckle above her and grinned wickedly. He had resigned himself to the unknown. Must be odd for him to surrender control so willingly. The idea of him doing that just for her was delicious all on its own.

She wrapped a hand around the base of his swollen cock and pumped slowly, watching the muscles in his abdomen jump and tense as he stifled a groan. She ran her free hand up and down his thigh and smiled. He was so wonderfully reactive. Probably the side effect of a woeful lack of attention and affection, but damn if she didn’t love it. It was like he was crying out to be touched, and she was more than happy to oblige.

Rosie pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock and watched his whole body twitch in anticipation. She smiled and heard him curse above her.

“Such a fucking tease.”

She tightened her grip as she pumped him and he groaned. “You like it.”

“I most certainly do not. I reject the implication that I— Oh, _fuck,_ Rosie…”

Rosie felt her ego swell as she wrapped her mouth around the head of his cock and swirled her tongue around it. She loved this, too. Easiest way to shut him up was to suck his dick, apparently. That was fine. It was wonderful, actually. She might have to find some other, more convenient methods, but this worked just fine and dandy for now. She bobbed her head down his length, taking him in slow like she knew he liked it, even if he swore otherwise. He also tried to tell her that she couldn’t take all of him, which was total bullshit. Okay, maybe not _total_ bullshit, he was...well endowed, and all, but she had gotten close, hadn’t she? Plus, how gratifying would it be to see his face if— no, _when_ she actually did it? 

Rosie was pulled out of her thoughts by the feel of his strong hands in her hair, those long, nimble fingers so gentle against her scalp. He had been pretty soft with her thus far, but she’d watched his tight-fisted control slip a few times. She was going to get him there, too. The feel of him pulling at her hair by the fistful was something she wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. 

She let herself get sloppy, saliva coating his cock and making it easier and easier for her to get further down. But she was still getting choked up just a few inches short. She bobbed her head up and pressed her tongue against the special spot she had found the night before, moaning as he rocked into her mouth. She tried desperately to relax her jaw and take him further, but it was still too much.

“Rosie...baby...you don’t have to—”

She released him with a pop and a frustrated growl, “Just...turn around.” She crawled away from him and onto the floor, sinking to her knees on wobbly legs. She looked up to see him staring at her, dazed and brow furrowed.

“You waiting for something, baby?”

“I—” He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, his legs on either side of her. Rosie felt immensely proud of herself to see his thighs were trembling. “Nope. Not at all. You just...Fuck, I love you.”

Rosie smiled, feeling a flush burn hot against her cheeks. “I love you too, darling. Now, shut up so I can prove it.”

His laugh turned into a groan as she took him into her mouth once again, the change in angle making everything go much smoother. Surprisingly so, actually. She worked down his length, rushing herself just slightly, eager to see if the change in angle would help in her tireless endeavor. She felt one of his hands bury itself back into her hair, and she moaned as he pulled slightly. His hand carded through her hair and pulled gently again, and she realized he was trying to get the hair away from her face. He wanted to watch. Well, good. She worked best with an audience, anyway. 

She hummed as she sloppily worked down his length, almost pulling back and whooping as she felt her nose meet the coarse ginger curls across his abdomen. A hoarse gasp erupted above her, and his hand tightened roughly in her hair. Rosie moaned around him and let her strokes turn a little hurried, feeling the muscles in his thighs tense as her eyes welled up with tears.

“Fuck, Rosie...way to prove me wrong, baby.” She hummed happily and swirled her tongue around the tip of his cock before taking him as far as she could, feeling his cock just barely slide against the back of her throat. He let out a guttural noise, “ _Shit._ Good girl. Good girl, baby. Oh, fuck, that’s so good.”

He was getting close. She could feel it. And he always talked more, like he couldn’t help it. Her suspicions were confirmed as he failed to hold back a strangled cry, the hand in her hair tightening until his grip was painful, _finally._

“Rosie, I’m gonna...I’m close, baby. I’m—” He erupted in her mouth with a low growl, and Rosie swallowed him down, happy to finally taste him. It was only fair, really. He’d gotten to taste her loads of times already. It was almost overwhelming, but she managed to swallow all of him down, salty but not too much so, until he relaxed his hold on her. She released him, ropes of drool still connecting them until she wiped a hand across her swollen lips, feeling bright and giddy and gratified despite the slight soreness of her jaw and the tears drying across her cheeks.

She looked up and smiled, seeing Deacon looking down at her with adoration and _pride_ , and kissed his thigh. “Told you I could do it.”

He gave her a lopsided smile, panting as the bright red flush across his chest slowly faded. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. You've got a gold medal coming to you." A ray of sunlight lit him from the back, wrapping his form in a glowing silhouette. Rosie remembered her own comment about finding a camera. What she wouldn’t give for a picture of him just like this.

His hand left her hair and beckoned her up towards him, “Come here.”

He slid back a little further on the bed and Rosie smiled wide as she took her place in his lap. Deacon pressed a kiss to her lips and pulled her head against his shoulder, placing another kiss on her forehead.

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

She wiggled and wrapped her arms around his torso. “I do.”

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest and Rosie closed her eyes, wishing she could wrap herself in that sensation. “You know, I’m shocked by your humility and shyness. You should really give yourself more credit.”

“I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

He laughed again, and Rosie decided she never wanted to stop making him laugh. Especially that loud, half surprised bark that made her heart glow. The one she always knew, without a doubt, was genuine, and seemingly reserved just for her. She could bask in the feeling of that laugh forever and ever.

“Are you alright? I saw tears.”

Rosie smiled coyly and tightened her arms around him. “I'm fine and dandy. You’re a big boy, honey. Takes a little bit of effort.”

“Flatterer.”

“Nuh uh. _Observant._ ” She kissed his neck and sighed. “We have to go do real life things, now. People to see, synths to save.”

Rosie watched his face turn a little grumpy, and she fought the urge to tweak his nose. “Aw, do we have to?”

“Unfortunately.” She kissed his cheek and went to step off the bed, but he grabbed her hand and held her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Rosie laughed. “I’ve gotta get dressed sometime! I can’t walk around in your shirt all day.” He made a pouty noise and fell back on the bed, releasing her hand in the process. Rosie smiled and rolled her eyes. “Big baby.”

She padded over to her dresser, smiling to herself as Deacon’s head popped up in response to the sound of the drawer opening.

“What are you gonna wear?”

“I dunno, hot stuff. Any suggestions?”

He sat up and strolled over, rifling through her drawers as she tucked herself underneath his arm. He pulled out a blush colored knit sweater and held it up.

“This. I like this one.”

Rosie grinned. “I made that.”

“You did? Is this what came of that pink lump you’ve been messing with?”

“It is indeed,” she said, her sunshiney mood suffering a sharp tug downwards. “After I...came back from the Institute, I wasn’t...I had a lot of trouble sleeping. That helped a little. Got it finished, at least.”

Deacon held her tighter to him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”

Rosie frowned. She didn’t want him to feel guilty over that, too. She’d blown up at him. Told him she’d wanted him gone. Because, yes, he lied, and he shouldn’t have, but the real reason she’d been so upset is she had felt so...exposed. Like he had drawn back the curtain on her life without permission. 

And then, the very next _morning_ when she had woken up without him there, she had regretted it. Felt his absence like a vacuum. She’d hoped upon hope he’d ignored her, and would just show right back up, grinning like an idiot and pretending nothing had ever happened. When he didn’t, she got angry all over again.

But she didn’t want to think about that anymore. She had enough to feel bad about as it is. She didn’t need to dredge up things that were over and done with. 

“You’re here now. That’s what I care about. Nothing to be sorry got as long as you’re here.” She took the sweater from his hands and held it to her, stepping out of his arms and modeling it. “Pants?”

Rosie watched his bright eyes twinkle as he stared at her. She didn’t think she’d ever get over that. Knowing she was always the center of his attention. “Those blue jeans. The ones that make your ass look good.”

She raised one eyebrow. “How am I supposed to know which pair that is?”

He smirked, “I have a feeling you know exactly which ones I’m talking about.”

Rosie pursed her lips and opened the second drawer down, pulling out the exact blue jeans he was referring to and folding them on the dresser. She turned on her heel and marched towards the bathroom.

“Where you going? I wanted to see you put ‘em on.”

Rosie turned and gave him the sassiest look she could muster, propping her elbow up against the doorframe. “I was gonna take a shower first. _Somebody’s_ got me all sticky.”

He grinned wickedly and his eyes flashed to her thighs. “What a shame. You're all hoarse, too. Everyone's gonna think you've got a head cold."

Rosie couldn’t help it, her face cracked into a smile. “Well, I'm sure it's nothing a hot shower can't fix. You're a bit flushed, you know. Maybe you've got the same thing I've got."

He gasped, holding a hand to his heart. "I can't imagine how that could've happened."

Rosie chuckled, unable to school her face like he could. "Me neither. Regardless, I really think you could benefit from a little hot water therapy yourself. But I'd just _hate_ to waste water..."

"Very environmentally conscious. I respect that. Especially in a world destroyed by nuclear fire." 

"So, I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”

His grin widened into that trademark cheshire cat expression that always made her tingly and he moved towards her, his steps slow and deliberate. “Oh, _boy_ , would I.”

Rosie threw her head back in a laugh as he scooped her up, peppering her face in kisses as he closed the door behind them with a small click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thick thighs save lives, Rosie. And Deacon is *happy* to tell her so.
> 
> Also, imagine deepthroating your super spy boyfriend out of sheer spite. Rosie Castevet, everyone.


	24. Senseless Violence Will Get You Everywhere, You Know.

“Well, first things first. We need to get you in some clothes that fit, sweetheart.”

“Precisely what I was thinking, mum. I’ve brought over some things from the Castle that will do quite nicely.”

“Oh, Codsworth, you’re a peach.”

Deacon had positioned himself in one of the corners of Spectacle Island’s pristine laboratory in an attempt to keep track of both parties present at the same time. Curie and Haylen were busy babbling excitedly over some lab equipment, looking more and more like the best of friends with each passing second, while Danse, Rosie and Codsworth hovered just in front of him. Deacon’s good mood from this morning had soured significantly. He should never have put her in those goddamn jeans. Sure, it meant that he could stare at her all day, in her cute little sweater tucked in and a tattered polka-dotted kerchief tied around her neck in a feeble attempt to hide the marks he’d left there, but it also meant that certain _other_ people could stare too. A certain mooney-eyed brotherhood dick that he’d really like to punch right in his perfectly square jaw right about now.

All this was made slightly more bearable by the fact that Danse seemed utterly bewildered to be the center of so much attention. The poor man was staring at Codsworth with wary eyes, as the robot gave him a full body scan and congratulated him on his “impressive measurements.” Deacon just barely managed to hide a snort under a small cough as Danse turned a bright shade of red and Codsworth zoomed out the large metal doors. Rosie caught it anyway, throwing him a scolding look over her shoulder. He simply grinned back, and Rosie turned away, her angry pout surrendering to a small, twitchy smile.

Curie and Haylen had retreated to the greenhouse upstairs, and Danse fidgeted slightly. “Knight— Or, apologies, General—”

“Rosie. You can call me by my name, Danse.”

Danse’s flush returned as he cleared his throat. “Right. Rosie. If we could...perhaps speak...privately.”

His eyes flashed to Deacon and he grinned. “Don’t worry about me, pal. Needed a smoke break, anyway.”

Deacon begrudgingly left his post and strutted out the metal double doors, walking aimlessly over to the shoreline. Did he really _want_ to leave his girl alone with Mister Built-like-a-brickhouse? No. But Rosie had flashed him a pleading look that meant he was going to whether he liked it or not. And boy did he not like it. 

He fished his cigarettes from his back pocket and put one between his teeth. There was a small building a few yards away, in a small alcove. Almost looked like a tiny chapel. The distinct scent of wood rotted by saltwater was carried over by the wind and he breathed deep. Clicking his lighter as someone approached from behind. Stupid thing was out of juice.

“Need a light?”

Ah, Maccready. He should’ve known. His footsteps were just light enough to be an attempt at stealth. 

Deacon kept his eyes on the surf as he spoke, “Aw, what a gentleman. Is this you offering a long walk on the beach? Hold hands, whisper sweet nothings?”

Mac pulled a face as he held out his lighter, “Blegh. Why do you have to make everything so weird?”

Deacon chuckled as he felt the familiar burn of smoke in his lungs, letting it out in one long breath and watching the spirals curl in the chilly air. The heat of it against the icy sea spray was very nearly soothing. Even if Mac was fidgeting next to him, smoking his own cigarette as he obviously struggled to say or not to say.

“What?”

He saw Mac look up in his peripherals. “What?”

“I can see you squirming over there. Either you really have to piss or you’ve got something to say.”

Mac sighed. “You and Rosie.”

He said it strangely. A statement said like it was a question. “Uh huh.”

“I—” He sighed again, kicking a clump of sand into the air. “She’s like my sister. She’s my family.”

"Uh huh."

"And I'm not gonna see her hurt. Not on my watch."

Deacon sighed and took the bait, “What exactly are you getting at, here?” 

“I don’t fucking trust you.”

Deacon finally turned to face him, their eyes locking behind his shades. Mac was staring him down, a fire there that perfectly mirrored Rosie’s. Damn. Maybe they didn’t look alike, but they really could be siblings. 

“You know, I think I got that. You’re not exactly the subtle type.”

“Yeah, well...I don’t get what she sees in you, either.”

 _Join the club, pal_ , Deacon thought, taking a step towards him and watching half-amused as Maccready took a step back. 

Deacon grinned. “Don’t trust me, kid? Looks to me like you’re afraid of me.”

The angry vein in Mac’s forehead made an appearance as he lifted his chin and his ears burnt red. “I’m not _afraid._ Just seems I’m the only one around here who’s been at the business end of your rifle.”

“If I remember correctly, that was _your_ rifle.”

“Oh, right! You were gonna shoot me with _my own gun._ That makes it _so_ much better.”

Deacon paused for a second. “I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

Mac scoffed. “Yeah. Sure, you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t. Not really in the business of shooting seventeen year old kids.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you were in the business of killing people for caps, not hunting down synths, so—”

“How was I supposed to know that guy was a synth?! I just—”

Deacon rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “I dunno, Bobby. Maybe ask a _single fucking question._ ”

“Well, I didn’t back then, alright? I didn’t ask questions. And don’t call me _Bobby,_ asshole.”

Deacon pinched his nose, feeling his frustration grow by the second. “You know who Doctor Zimmer is, right? One of the Institute’s top guys. Or he was, anyway. I swear, your thick fucking skull is gonna be—”

Mac threw his hands in the air, “I didn’t know that! I got a contract, and I fulfilled it, like I always did. Even if some shadowy asshole breaks into my room late at night and tries to give me some weird, creepy lecture. All I wanted was to bring caps back home, you _dick._ ”

“Bring caps back home to your wife, right? And what did you tell her you were doing? Playing soldier? What a load of—”

He was cut off by a sharp pain in his cheekbone, stumbling backwards as he was thrown off balance. Mac was standing in front of him, red faced and huffing.

Little fucking punk had _punched him._

And he wasn’t done, apparently. Mac leapt forward and grabbed him around the middle, tackling him to the ground. Deacon’s back hit damp sand and Mac landed heavily on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Mac’s teeth were welded together as he spat in Deacon’s face, “Don’t talk about my _fucking_ wife.”

Deacon rolled out of his pin, pressing Mac against the sand with an elbow to his throat. “Let’s not do this, kid. I’ve got about fifty pounds on your skinny ass.”

“Yeah, and about fifty _years,_ ” Mac said, burying a knee into Deacon’s ribs and shoving him off. Deacon stumbled to his feet, spreading his feet into a fighting stance and waiting for the next blow. Mac took another swing and he caught it, twisting his wrist and wrapping an arm around his torso until his back was flush against Deacon’s chest.

“Kid, stop.”

Mac tried in vain to twist his neck away from where Deacon had hissed in his ear. “Why? You scared? How about you stop holding back and fight me, old man.”

“As much as I’d like to make you pay for _that_ little comment,” Deacon shoved Mac a good few feet away, watching as he stumbled and whipped around, looking ready to tackle him all over again, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...brought her up.”

He was hiding it under layers of red hot anger, but even so, Deacon could see that he was close to tears. He felt guilt crawl into his throat and burn a hole there as Mac spoke, his voice breaking with emotion. 

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Deacon raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I...I’m sorry.”

It was a shit apology, but he couldn’t find the words to fix this. To turn Mac into his usual swaggering, asinine self. He just huffed and turned away from him, sitting heavily on the sand and staring out at the ocean. 

Deacon took a risk and took careful steps towards forward, sitting beside Mac on the sand and keeping his eyes trained on the tide. In and out. Approaching and retreating.

He ran a hand across his cheek, “You’ve got a hell of a right hook, you know.”

“Damn straight.”

Deacon chuckled, feeling strange and far too open in the silence between them. Stretching on for way too long. How to fix it...he unfortunately knew.

“I was married. Once. Long time ago.” Mac’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak. “She was too young, too. Went before she should have.”

“So you should _know_ —”

“Yeah. I should. And I do. My mouth’s just too big for my own good. You know all about that.”

Mac snorted, the corners of his mouth turning into a sardonic smirk. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Deacon took a breath, steeling himself for the truth he was about to admit. “Mac, I’m not— I’m not going to let anything happen to her. Not again.”

“Neither am I,” Mac responded, turning his neck to meet his gaze. “So, what if that thing is you?”

Deacon felt his face drop before he could stop it. Someone throwing one of your deepest fears at you is hard to prepare for. How many times had he stopped himself, pushed her away, because he was afraid. Afraid that he was the big bad wolf, the downfall of his little lamb.

Mac took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t see her, when she came back. From that...place. She was only there for a few days. And she came back...sick. Pale and...completely unresponsive. Preston didn’t know what to do with her. Thought she’d been replaced. They radioed me and…” Mac looked down and shook his head, “She answered every question I had, but it was like...she wasn’t really there. Like she couldn’t see me. It wasn’t until she saw Duncan…” He sucked in a breath, “She broke, Deacon. Fell apart on the floor. She just started talking, telling me everything that she saw, everything they did, crying the whole time. She talked about you, too.”

Deacon winced, feeling the heat of Mac’s gaze. “At the time, I took it for what it was. She was angry with you. Finally found out you were a scumbag and...whatever. But now…” He shook his head again, chuckling and looking at the sky. “She’s the happiest I’ve seen her in weeks. Almost back to her old self. The way she was. And I realized...she wasn’t angry with you. She wanted to be, so, so badly. But she fucking wasn’t. You’re all she wanted.”

Deacon let out a strangled laugh. “I don’t—”

“No, yeah, I know it’s hard to believe. Trust me, I’m having a hard time with it too. But it’s true. You...help her. Somehow.” He threw a clump of sand and watched it crumble, “Made me kinda jealous when I figured it out, to be perfectly honest.”

“Aw, you’re jealous of me, Bobby? With those cheekbones? Don’t even worry about it.”

Mac snorted and shoved at his shoulder. “Whatever. Tryna be serious.”

“Doesn’t suit you.”

“Shut up.”

They sat in silence again, not tense this time, but strangely companionable. Watching the tide come in. Weird. So fucking weird.

And yet, it felt strangely normal at the same time.

“I don’t think you’re dangerous. Not to her, at least. I think...we both want the same thing, here.”

“On the same team,” Deacon said. His face quirked into a smile, “You know, she thinks we don’t get along because we’re too similar.”

“Say that again and I’ll punch you. Again. Way harder this time.”

 _Except she’s absolutely right,_ Deacon thought. “Yeah, she’s full of shit. I think we get along just fine.”

Deacon tensed, waiting to see if that risky move was going to backfire on him.

Mac sighed. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

The dull roar of the sea surrounded them, until Deacon heard footsteps behind them and smiled. Small person, yet heavy steps. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

“Whatcha doin’ boys?”

Rosie plopped herself between them, grinning from ear to ear. Deacon watched Mac’s ears turn a little pink. 

“Oh, nothin’. Just waiting for you to come back from your little chat with tall, dark and brawny.”

Mac snorted. “I hate that guy.”

Rosie glared at him, “You don’t hate him, RJ. You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough! Shit, even Curie says—”

Mac suddenly flushed a deep red all the way down to his neck as Rosie gaped at him.

“Oh, _Curie_ says so, huh? Well, of course, that means it _must be_ universal law, hm?”

“Shut up. Shut _up,_ Rosie.”

“What? I’m not saying anything. It’s just that you’ve spent an awful lot of time in the lab, lately. No doubt having lots of little chats with _Curie._ Have you written her name in your diary yet, RJ?”

Mac shoved at her shoulder and she toppled against Deacon, giggling and wrapping her arm around his. Mac knew about them and all, but it still made him feel exposed. Seen in the worst way. He tried desperately to swallow that feeling down.

He buried his feelings under words, like he always did. Redirect. “So, what did he want? Paladin Dickhead, I mean.”

Rosie pinched his arm, “ _Danse_ just wanted to...well, he feels guilty, I suppose. He’s trying to adjust. _So go easy,_ ” She said, glaring at both of them. “He thanked me. Said the sweetest things.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, “Yeah, cause he’s totally got the hots for you.”

Rosie scoffed, “He does not.”

“No, he definitely does,” Mac said, drawing shapes in the sand with a small twig. “It’s stupid obvious. He might as well be drooling.”

“You two are so gross! He was being an absolute gentleman, and he told me if I ever needed anything—” Both Deacon and Mac groaned loudly in unison, and Rosie frustratedly kicked her feet on the ground. “Oh, nevermind! I don’t like that you two are friends now. I’m outnumbered.”

Mac wrinkled his nose, “Who says we’re friends?”

“I do,” Rosie said, rubbing her cheek against Deacon’s sleeve. “I can sense it. I always knew you would be.” Mac snorted and Rosie frowned, looking up at Deacon’s face and brushing her thumb against the spot where Maccready had socked him. “What’s this? You’ve got a little mark there, honey.”

Mac made a gagging noise beside them and Deacon grinned. “Mac came to me for a little advice on wooing the fairer sex, obviously. You know Mac, when I said some girls like it rough, I didn’t really mean _that_ rough.”

Maccready groaned as Rosie shook with laughter, “That’s it. Put your dukes up, Deacon. I’m punching your lights out for real this time.”

Rosie stiffened, “ _This_ time?”

Now both men were laughing, Rosie staring bewildered at the both of them. “Yeah, don’t worry about it, baby. Remember what I told you about cognitive recalibration? Bobby was just, uh...helpin’ me out is all.”

“Cognitive recalibration!” Mac echoed as the both of them fell further into laughter, snorting and giggling as Rosie pouted between them.

“Aw, come on! How did I become the third wheel here?”

Mac was lying back against the sand, chuckling as he stared at the sky. “Hey, I thought I told you not to call me Bobby?”

“Yeah, don’t call him _Bobby,_ ” Rosie grumbled.

“Aw, are you jealous?” Deacon kissed the top of her head without thinking and shocked himself. Mac caught the surprise on his face but didn’t say anything, his face creeping into a smug smile as he rolled his eyes. 

Someone hollered from far off, and all three of them turned to see the dark skinned man Deacon had noticed the day before jogging over, Duncan on his hip. Mac sat up and got to his feet in a hurry, his brow furrowing in worry as the man came closer.

“Joseph, what’s the matter?” 

The man slowed to a stop in front of him, Duncan hanging onto his shoulder with a red, tear-streaked face. “Nothing big. Just a...tiny little meltdown. D was all excited when he saw Bumble and Dogmeat bringing the brahmin out, but then a calf licked him and...well, let’s just say the excitement was over pretty quickly.”

Mac tutted and lifted Duncan into his arms, cradling him against his chest as he rocked on his feet. Trademark thing for new parents. They rocked from foot to foot even if they didn’t have a baby in their arms. Duncan sniffled as he lifted up a chubby arm and Mac kissed it.

“Yeah, slimy tongues, right? I think it’s nasty, too.” Mac nodded his head towards Deacon, “Joseph, this is uh...Rosie’s friend Deacon.”

Joseph stuck his hand out and he took it, watching the man smile cheerfully. “Deacon, this is Joseph. He’s the one who took care of Duncan for me back in the Capital.”

Deacon offered up a small smile, “Nice to meet you, man.”

“Same to you! Boston’s...a lot different than back home.”

Mac scoffed. “Understatement of the year.”

Deacon silently agreed, cataloguing the features of Joseph’s face. He was young, couldn’t be much older than Mac’s age. Probably closer to Rosie. His eyes were bright, a deep brown that held a calm intelligence. The way he held himself screamed “old soul.” Confident, but not brash. Steady and level-headed. The other side of Maccready’s coin, in a way. But hey, he was getting ahead of himself. He barely knew the guy.

Joseph gestured back towards the center of the island, “Well, Bumble still needs help with the hay bales, if you’re alright here?”

Maccready turned his attention away from Duncan and looked up, “Yeah, we’re fine.” He rubbed a thumb across Duncan’s chubby cheek and smiled, “Slimy brahmin tongues all but forgotten, right buddy?”

Duncan nodded and clung tighter to the fabric of Mac’s shirt, and Deacon felt a dull ache in his chest as he watched Mac lean down and press a kiss to the top of the small boy’s head, his fluffy, obviously genetic Maccready hair sticking out at odd angles. Joseph threw out a few noncommittal goodbye’s to the group and trotted towards the barn, and Deacon felt a squeeze on his arm.

Rosie was staring up at him with wide eyes and a questioning look, but he just smiled and shook his head. She didn’t need to worry about that. So what if seeing Mac so affectionate with his kid made his heart hurt? They had more important things to worry about. Like keeping said kid safe, and the two brotherhood fugitives they were currently harboring. Oh, also taking down the Institute. You know, your basic, daily chore kind of stuff.

But then Mac sat and joined them again on the beach, and Duncan waddled over to Rosie and sat down in her lap as she and Mac talked about...something he had tuned out, and he was submerged in that ache once again. Watching her absentmindedly rub the boy’s back as he played in the sand made him think of her. Barbara. She had been so excited about the prospect of having a baby. Got some thick baby naming book with yellowing pages from a traveling junk trader but wouldn’t let him open it. Said it was jinxing it if they didn’t yet have a baby to name. So he had stared at it every day, his hands itching to flip through the pages as it sat on the shelf, doing nothing but collecting dust until the day his world ended. So much of him had died with her. That book burned with the house, and the dream went with it. Up in smoke. Like it was nothing. 

He was yanked out of his thoughts by a sudden weight on his knee, and looked down to see Duncan sitting on it, a tiny pearl colored shard of a seashell held in the palm of his chubby hand.

“That’s for you.”

Deacon’s face split into the widest grin humanly possible before he could stop himself. Damn, Maccready made a cute kid. Big, blue eyes with that untameable mess of sandy brown hair, and a sad little pout that he must get from his mother. 

“Aw, for me? You shouldn’t have, pal.”

Deacon was painfully aware of Mac and Rosie’s gaze as Duncan reached out his arms, asking wordlessly to be lifted. The anxious voice in the back of his brain told him don’t, to just send the kid off to Rosie or Mac and avoid a whole lot of hurt. But he ignored it and hoisted the little boy up until he was properly in his lap and hanging on to his shoulder. “You know, I used to collect shells and stuff all the time when I was your age. You wanna go help me find some?”

 _Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea,_ he thought to himself. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t resist the temptation, even if it was going to leave him in a world of hurt for a few days. This is why he always did his best to avoid the small gaggles of children in Rosie’s shiny new Minutemen settlements. Once those tiny little rugrats gave him that look, he was all but won over. Just like now, as Duncan gleefully nodded up at him. Deacon gave Mac a look before he nodded as well, and he got to his feet, carrying Duncan a tiny bit further down the beach.

Rosie watched him go, a shocked smile painting her face as he babbled on to the small child in his arms, saying something about treasure hunting and no doubt starting a silly, nonsensical story before Mac unceremoniously spoiled the sweet moment.

“Who the fuck is that?” 

Rosie slapped his arm, “RJ!”

“What? Look at him! We’re not best pals or anything, but I don’t even _know_ that guy.”

He gestured vaguely towards Deacon, who was now laughing as Duncan pulled a license plate out of the sand. Not exactly a shell, but a treasure to a little boy nonetheless. Rosie sighed, “I always knew he was all kinds of people. This one’s...a little unexpected is all.”

But if she thought hard on it, it really wasn’t. She’d watched him whenever Duncan came around, or when they met kids in the settlements. Almost every waking second, he managed to keep a tight fist around any emotions he had, constantly schooling himself into neutrality. But in those moments, he struggled. Sometimes going sulkily silent until they left. At first, she thought kids made him sad. That it was hard for him to be around them. Then, slowly, she realized it was the exact opposite. Deacon the super spy had a soft spot for kids. Everyone had their kryptonite, she supposed.

“And! That kid hasn’t said a word in four days! But he’ll talk to _Deacon._ ”

Rosie pulled herself out of her thoughts to laugh at Mac’s grumpy pout. “Jealous, much?”

“Yes!” Mac said, throwing his hands in the air. “I am very jealous! I’ve been getting the silent treatment for days, but then _Deacon_ shows up to talk about _shells_ …”

Rosie watched them on the beach, smiling as Deacon offered his hands to carry the copious amount of shells Duncan had acquired. “He’ll get better, Mac. You’ve just gotta be patient.”

Mac sighed and laid back against the sand, his tone turning solemn as he spoke quietly, “But what if he doesn’t? What if he doesn’t get better?”

Rosie took RJ’s hand and squeezed. “Then you’ll love him just the same. And so will I.” Mac smiled up at her and squeezed her hand back, sighing and staring at the sky. Rosie chewed her lip in thought, “I think I’ve got just the place for Danse, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah? Somewhere to go once he gets out of the Commonwealth?”

She shook her head, “No. No, someplace here.”

Mac shot up from the ground, “Here?”

“Yeah, here. Put that non-aggression agreement to the test.” She lowered her voice, “Just don’t tell Deacon.” _Let him have this moment._

Mac chuckled, “Oh, don’t worry. I— What the hell?”

He had glanced over to the beach only to look right back, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Rosie looked over her shoulder to see Duncan pulling something stubborn out of the sand, Deacon standing with a wide grin behind him.

“Hey guys, look! Duncan found a brahmin skull!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff has been really cute and fluffy, huh? Super calm and happy, right? Isn't that cool?
> 
> It's the calm before the storm, my friends.


End file.
